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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956958">Guess I'll Just Have to Wank More</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretbadass/pseuds/Secretbadass'>Secretbadass</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cockblocking, Cockblocking Sherlock Holmes, John Is So Done, John acting like Sherlock, John drives Sherlock round the twist, M/M, Major erection death, Turnabout is Fair Play, wanking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:22:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,741</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretbadass/pseuds/Secretbadass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock cockblocks him one time too many, John decides to turn the tables and drive his infuriating flatmate as mad as Sherlock drives him. Dick-related shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Watson/OFCs (but not for long), Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>183</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the date with Cath that was the last straw, the final link in a chain of calamities that culminated in John’s decision to swear off dating for good.</p><p>But before Cath, there was Louise, and before Louise, there was Amelia. Amelia had been more patient than many of John’s previous girlfriends, though this did not spare her suffering the same fate—a succession of dates interrupted by endless texts from Sherlock, which, if ignored, morphed into endless calls from Sherlock, which, if disregarded, culminated in the detective showing up in person, invariably at the worst and most awkward possible time. John was disappointed but not really surprised when Amelia ended it after the third such occurrence.</p><p>Louise never had a chance to make it as far as the second date. Their first and only had consisted of drinks at Louise’s local, followed by a rom-com and shared bag of buttery popcorn at the cinema. Louise was a bright, bubbly, green-eyed blonde who genuinely seemed to appreciate John’s sense of humour—up to a point, as it later transpired. The first part of their date had unfolded so well that after the movie, John suggested getting takeaway from the Chinese at the end of Baker Street and taking it back to 221B to eat. Louise agreed readily. It should be safe, John reasoned. Sherlock had a time-consuming experiment under way in the lab at Barts that he had said would need monitoring until at least midnight. John ratcheted up the charm, and by the time they’d picked up the food and made it to the flat, Louise was beginning to cast heated looks his way. John began hoping for an even happier ending to the evening than he had initially anticipated.</p><p>As they stepped through the door to the living room, John offered to take Louise’s jacket. She shrugged out of it and handed it over, wrinkling her pert nose at him. “Sorry, I, uh...need the loo.”</p><p>“Right, yeah,” said John, setting the carrier bag of food down on the coffee table next to a nearly identical one. He frowned down at it. Sherlock must have picked something up for himself and then got sidetracked before he could eat. Typical. He turned his attention back to Louise. “Uh, down the corridor, on the left.”</p><p>Louise nodded. “Right. Be right back,” she twinkled, and disappeared into the bathroom.</p><p>John moved to the kitchen to fetch dishes and cutlery, humming a tune from the movie they’d seen. The toilet flushed a minute later and the taps ran, and then Louise was back. “I was just about to open this,” John said, hefting the bottle of wine he had just removed from the fridge.</p><p>“Oh, lovely,” smiled Louise. “Are we eating here or in the living room?” She cast a doubtful look over the cluttered kitchen table and worktops.</p><p>“Oh, living room, definitely.”</p><p>“Shall I take the dishes and things in?”</p><p>“Sure, yeah. Ta. I put everything on a tray for us. Here you are.” John handed over the tray of dishes and utensils, and Louise took it all into the next room. He took down a couple of wine glasses and had just fished the corkscrew out of the depths of the cutlery drawer when Louise unleashed a window-rattling scream. The corkscrew fell forgotten to the worktop as John bolted in to see what was wrong.</p><p>He stopped short at the sight of Louise standing over the coffee table, fingers splayed in horror as she stared down at the polystyrene container she had dropped onto the table. Instead of egg rolls or chicken soo guy, the container had disgorged two dismembered hands. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock’s began reeling off observations in John’s head: both left hands, so two different owners, <em>obvisly</em>. Hairy knuckles and meaty fingers on one, delicate wrist and fetching lavender nail varnish on the other, so one male, one female, clearly. Nicotine stains—the man was a smoker. Writing callus on the middle finger—the woman was left-handed. Another voice in his head, Mrs. Hudson’s this time, interrupted with, “Well, that wasn’t very good, was it?” No. No, it wasn’t. John wondered fleetingly if matters might have been improved had the hands been a matched set. Probably not, he decided, and fought down an entirely inappropriate urge to giggle. He cast about for something acceptable to say and settled on a misguided attempt to lighten the situation: “Ah...guess we’ll be needing extra soy sauce, then.”</p><p>Louise’s head swivelled slowly in his direction. She stared for a moment in goggle-eyed disbelief, then abruptly spun around and sprinted back down the hallway, slamming the loo door behind her. This was followed in short order by the unmistakeable sound of cinema popcorn being lost with some violence into the toilet. John groaned and covered his eyes. The hoped-for ending to his night had just gone straight down the shitter—literally.</p><p>“John?” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice from the stairwell. “Is everything all right up there?”</p><p>John stepped to the top of the stairs. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, sorry. Just a...mishap with one of Sherlock’s experiments. Everything’s fine.”</p><p>“If you say so, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson doubtfully. He heard her heels clicking as she returned to her flat.</p><p>The toilet flushed and Louise emerged, pale, trembling, and still bug-eyed. John opened his mouth to offer an apology or explanation but was forestalled by a head shake and upraised hand. Louise did not want to hear it. She sidestepped his outstretched arm and snatched her handbag off the chair near the door before fleeing down the stairs without a word. Only once the outside door slammed shut in her wake did John realize she had left her jacket behind. He grabbed it and chased after her, shouting an apology to an alarmed Mrs. Hudson as he sprinted by. “Louise!” he yelled as he got outside, but there was no sign of her in the street. He jogged to the next corner, to no avail. Eventually he gave it up as a bad job and returned, dejected, to 221B.</p><p>He had really liked Louise.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John reentered 221B, Louise’s jacket still trailing from one hand, to find that Sherlock had returned in his absence. He greeted John cheerily as he entered. “Ah, John, you’re back. Excellent.” He held up one of the dismembered hands. “I was just about to get started on a new experiment.” His eyes twinkled. “Care to lend a hand?”</p><p>The resulting row was one for the history books and certainly the loudest her boys had had in Mrs. Hudson’s recollection. While much of the shouting was muffled by walls and floors, the occasional volley came through clearly, including, “Amateur detective, my arse! Professional cockblock, more like.”</p><p>Sherlock’s sneering correction of, “It’s <em>consulting</em> detective” was met with a furious, “Yeah, well, consult <em>this</em>!”</p><p>Mrs. Hudson had no trouble whatever picturing the non-verbal adjunct to that request.</p><p>“Oh, very mature, John,” Sherlock shouted after him as John stomped up the stairs to his room. “Be sure to let Mrs. Hudson know when you’re ready for your milk and biscuits!”</p><p>John’s next suggestion was both unequivocal and anatomically impossible and was followed in short order by the near-simultaneous slamming of the living room and bedroom doors, hard enough to rattle the newel post under Mrs. Hudson’s hand. “Oh, dear,” she said, bringing a hand to her cheek. Heaven knew her boys tried each other’s patience on a regular basis, but they’d never had a blow-up like this.</p><p>The landlady stood for some time at the bottom of the stairs, considering her strategy. This would require some smoothing over, certainly, and more than just standard-issue scones and pots of tea. No, a crisis of this magnitude meant rolling out the big guns: one of her grandmother’s cream cakes would be just the thing. No one had ever been able to resist the mollifying properties of Granny Sissons’s cream cake. Its pacifying powers were legendary. According to family lore, it had been responsible for patching up a decades-long feud between Mrs. Hudson’s uncles, Bill and Arthur, who had fallen out over a girl whose name both had long since forgotten. They had not spoken for 20 years until Granny decided enough was enough. She summoned her sons to her kitchen table, sat them down, wordlessly served them cake and tea, and withdrew to allow her confections to work their conciliatory magic. Three bites in, the brothers had made eye contact. Five bites, and grudging greetings were exchanged. By the time they’d each put away two slices, the brothers were talking and laughing just like old times. Yes, a cream cake would be just the thing.</p><p>Plan in place, Mrs. Hudson smiled and returned to her flat. Suddenly the hellish screeching of an abused violin filled the house, and Mrs. Hudson sighed, shaking her head. She took her apron down off its hook. Might as well get started on the baking, since there would be no sleep for anyone tonight—not as long as Sherlock was doing his impression of the losing side in a cat fight. Hopefully Granny’s cake would be up to the challenge.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sadly, Mrs. Hudson’s plan to broker peace through the judicious allotment of carbohydrates never came to pass. The following day, Mycroft called in a favour, and a grumbling Sherlock was despatched to Brussels on a dull but time-consuming case that kept him away from London for more than a month. Peace and harmony reigned again at 221B, and John took advantage of this Sherlock-free interlude to begin the relationship whose demise would drive the final nail into the coffin of his dating aspirations.</p><p>Cath was a dark-haired, blue-eyed chemist with whom John struck up a conversation while having a prescription filled. Petite, pretty and fit, she liked classic rock and enjoyed hiking with her dog at the weekends. They genuinely clicked, and their first three dates had been fantastic, with the most recent one culminating in a raucous and memorable romp in John’s bed that proved their sexual compatibility beyond the shadow of a doubt. John was elated, and when Cath suggested a weekend getaway to a Hampshire bed-and-breakfast run by a friend of hers, John was instantly on board. Cath made arrangements for the care of her dog, then hired a car, and she and John set off together on the Friday afternoon.</p><p>The trip was uneventful and they arrived at the B&amp;B just before dinner time. Cath’s friend Jen emerged from the front door of the inn, greeting them with a hug as Cath made introductions. “Welcome,” said Jen, helping them with their bags as she led them inside. “I’ve given you our best room. Private bath with hot tub, big-screen telly, plus there’s a complimentary bottle of bubbly.” She opened the door and ushered them in.</p><p>“Ta for that,” said John, looking around the room. He whistled. “Cath wasn’t kidding when she said this place was nice.”</p><p>“Glad you like it,” Jen smiled as she set a bag on the bed. “Listen, there’s this French restaurant two villages over. Little place, middle of nowhere, looks like nothing much from the outside, but their chef is a sodding genius. It’s so mobbed that you can’t get near the place most nights. The waiting list for reservations is almost two months long. But...we make standing reservations there every few weeks for our guests. You two could have tonight’s slot if you’d like? It’s at half 7.”</p><p>“Really?” squeaked Cath. “That sounds fantastic! What do you think, John?”</p><p>“Great, yeah. How far away is it?”</p><p>“Like I said, bit off the beaten path, maybe a half-hour by car? But completely worth the drive.”</p><p>“Sounds great, yeah.”</p><p>Jen beamed. “Great! I’ll leave you two to settle in. Come see me when you’re ready to leave and I’ll give you directions.” She made for the door. “Bubbly’s in the fridge!” she said over her shoulder as she exited.</p><p>“Ta,” John said again, closing the door behind her. Cath was bent over the bed, opening the zip on her overnight bag. “Mm-hmm, very nice,” he said, not in reference to the room. Cath straightened up, giving a little smirk as she noted the direction of his gaze.</p><p>John approached and put his arms around her. “So...what say we test out this mattress before we leave? Just to be sure it’s up to scratch, of course.”</p><p>“Of course,” Cath giggled, walking backwards until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. John followed her down, working a hand up under her blouse to cup one silk-covered breast. Cath hummed her approval. “I suppose we’ve got time for a speed shag.”</p><p>“Well, that is very lucky,” said John as he nibbled on an earlobe. “Because I can be very speedy when necessary.”</p><p>“Ooh, big words. Prove it, then!”</p><p>Forty minutes later, the freshly showered duo, with Cath’s directions in hand, climbed into their hired car and headed out.</p><p>As promised, the restaurant was exquisite. They were shown to a booth in a secluded corner and served one of the best meals of their recollection, working their way steadily through <em>soupe au potiron</em> and <em>filet de boeuf au fromage corse </em>with fondant potatoes. The food was delectable, the wine pairings impeccable. By the time the waiter announced the arrival of the decadent <em>nougat glacé au miel de châtaignier</em>, they were both full to bursting, though not tipsy, being mindful of the need to drive back to the bed-and-breakfast. Cath insisted on paying—“You can get the next one”—and they exited the restaurant hand in hand.</p><p>John put a hand to his midsection and blew out a breath. “I am stuffed to the gills,” he groaned. “Might need a bit of a walk to work some of this off.”</p><p>“Oh, I can think of better ways of working it off,” Cath smirked, taking his hand. “Come on.”</p><p>She led them back to the car and they got in, but instead of starting the engine, Cath knelt on her seat, leaned over the centre console, and captured John’s lips in a searing kiss. He groaned as her hand moved southward, groping him through his trousers. He craned his neck to check for spectators. It was dark, they were down the road from the restaurant, and no one was watching. “Oh, God,” he breathed, and gave himself up to the sensation as Cath reached down, making quick work of his belt and zip, and extricated his cock. She bent down and took him in her mouth. “Jesus!” John breathed as she proceeded to demonstrate a truly spectacular oral skill set. It took an embarrassingly short time for things to reach crisis point, and just as John was about to warn her, something stirred in the back seat.</p><p>“Oh, there you are, John,” said a sleepy baritone. “Finally. This village is so dull I actually fell asleep.”</p><p>John’s erection died an instant death. “Oh, God, not again,” he groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. Cath sat up like a shot, head whipping around to stare at the lanky, dark-haired man uncurling himself from the back seat. “What the hell?” she screeched as she wiped her chin. “Who are you?” Then John’s words registered and she swivelled back to stare at him. “And what do you mean, <em>not again</em>?” She turned back to Sherlock. “Who the bloody hell are you, and what are you doing in my car?”</p><p>“Ah.” Sherlock pasted on the phoniest smile John had ever seen outside of a political fundraiser. “Sherlock Holmes, at your service,” he said in his plummiest voice, extending a hand. Cath stared at it as though it carried bubonic plague. She fixed John with a disbelieving look.</p><p>“What the <em>hell</em>?” she screeched again.</p><p>“My flatmate,” John offered feebly, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He knew how this would end.</p><p>“Your flatmate? Here? Tonight? In the middle of our date—while I was—what the <em>hell</em>?!”</p><p>“Guess I should be grateful there were no body parts involved this time,” John muttered as he tucked himself away.</p><p>“Body parts? What—no, never mind. Never mind. Sod this, I don’t bloody want to know.” Cath shook her head, turning and settling herself behind the wheel. She shoved her key into the ignition and started the engine. “Just get out. Both of you, out, <em>now</em>!”</p><p>John sighed and complied, knowing there was no point in arguing. Sherlock followed suit without a word. Cath roared off in a cloud of dust, leaving the two men staring at each other by the side of the road.</p><p>"Bit excitable, wasn't she?" Sherlock commented, turning to watch the car's taillights disappear into the distance. "And sorely in need of a thesaurus." He turned back to find John levelling a furious glare at him. “John...” Sherlock began, taking in John’s clenched fists and the way his lips had tightened over his teeth.</p><p>“Don’t,” John snarled. “Just. Do not.” He stared hard at Sherlock for a moment longer, then sniffed through one nostril, did an about face, and marched back toward the restaurant, muttering as he went. “I always thought there’d be a popping sound. Confetti, maybe? Streamers—fireworks—something.”</p><p>“What are you on about?” Sherlock asked, following in John’s wake.</p><p>John rounded on him, miming his skull exploding. “The moment you finally drove me round the twist and my sanity went <em>poof!”</em> he shouted. “I figured there’d at least be sound effects.”</p><p>Sherlock was about to retort when a cab pulled up in front of the restaurant, disgorging an older couple who paid their fare and entered the eatery.</p><p>“Ah, excellent timing,” Sherlock said, making for the cab.</p><p>John grabbed his arm and shoved him back just as he reached for the door handle. “Oh, no, you don’t. This one’s mine. Get your own.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, John. We can share—”</p><p>“No, we bloody well <em>cannot</em>.”</p><p>“Cabs are hardly ten a penny here, John. I’ll be stranded here if—”</p><p>John set his jaw, getting in the detective’s face. “Not my sodding problem, Sherlock,” he snarled. “This. Cab. Is. Mine. Now piss off before I do something I’ll regret.”</p><p>Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again, nonplussed. Before he could come up with an argument, the other man had climbed into the cab and driven off.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took several hours for Sherlock to make it back to 221B. As predicted, finding another mode of transportation from that godforsaken hamlet had proved challenging. He entered the flat to find John sitting in his armchair with his fingers steepled under his nose, staring straight ahead. “I said, pass me my phone.”</p><p>Sherlock froze in the act of hanging his Belstaff on the door hook. “You said pass your phone? When?”</p><p>“An hour ago.”</p><p>“John, I’ve just got here.” He hung his coat and moved into the room. John was still staring vacantly ahead. “And your phone is on the table right next to you.”</p><p>“Pass it to me,” John said.</p><p>“Really, John—”</p><p>“Pass me. My phone,” John said, finally fixing him with a glacial stare. “You know I hate repeating myself.”</p><p>Sherlock knew no such thing. John was forever bleating on about tidying up, body parts in the fridge, and tedious undertakings like eating and sleeping. He did little else but repeat himself. Still, John’s stare at this moment was unnerving, and Sherlock leaned over, wordlessly grabbing John’s mobile and pressing it into his hand with somewhat more force than was strictly necessary. “Careful!” John growled, staring up at him. He pocketed the device without so much as a glance at it, and went back to staring at nothing.</p><p>Baffled, Sherlock went to use the loo and then to his room to change out of his dusty clothes and fetch his laptop. Now clad in pajamas and a dressing gown, he returned to the living room. John was still in his chair, although he must have got up at some point in the interim to make tea. No fewer than three steaming cups sat on the side table at John’s elbow.</p><p>“Ah, tea, excellent,” Sherlock said, reaching for a cup until another unsettling look from John arrested him in mid-reach.</p><p>“These,” John said firmly, “are mine. Kettle’s on the hob. Make your own.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, John, you have three cups right here—”</p><p>“It’s a three-cup problem,” John said doggedly, still staring up at him. “Get. Your own.” He raised the first cup to his lips and sipped, finally releasing Sherlock from that disconcerting gaze. It felt very much like being freed from one of those tractor beam things from <em>Trek Wars</em> or... whatever. What was going on here?</p><p>The detective made an affronted noise that produced no discernible effect on his companion, who went on sipping serenely, and flounced off to make his own tea. John gave an unseen smirk as he heard the kettle click on.</p><p>Sherlock returned some minutes later with his cuppa, still looking aggrieved, and settled into his chair. John worked his way steadily through his three cups of tea and went back to staring through Sherlock, who did his best to ignore the eerie gaze and get on with his work. He made one or two abortive attempts at conversation, only to be shushed with a peremptory, “Thinking!”</p><p>At length Sherlock checked the time on his computer. The clock read 3:23 a.m. “John?” he asked.</p><p>John hummed in response but didn’t shift his gaze.</p><p>“It’s nearly half three.”</p><p>Another hum.</p><p>“Don’t you need to get some sleep?”</p><p>“Sleep is boring,” said John, and went on staring.</p><p>Now thoroughly unnerved, Sherlock snapped his laptop shut and said, “Well, I’m off to bed. Later.”</p><p>John hummed again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock fled to his bedroom, flopping down onto his bed and stretching out. It was a relief to be away from that stare. He had expected some sort of fireworks from John after his interruption of the date, possibly even another domestic to rival the last one, but this? Why had the expected explosion failed to materialize? At the very least, he had thought John would spend a day or two stalking around the flat in a ball of pent-up anger, clenching his hands into fists and emitting periodic rage sniffs. There would be a long walk or two, perhaps a whinge session at the pub with Mike Stamford or Lestrade. Then a case would come up, a really first-rate one, and there would be the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through their veins, the high of solving it, getting it right—together. They’d go out for Chinese, and all would be well again.</p><p>But John wasn’t following the script. While he’d certainly seemed angry at the restaurant, ever since his return he’d been the opposite—detached, distracted, even cold. Not unlike Sherlock himself, actually, when he was in his mind palace, trying to work out a thorny problem. But John didn’t have a mind palace. A mind bedsit, possibly, or even a mind pub at the outside, but never a mind palace. Still, it was clear that his blogger was busy puzzling something out. But what? Sherlock groaned and fisted his hands in his hair. Damn the man!</p><p>He rose again and began pacing the room, muttering to himself. He wanted to play his violin, or better yet, smoke a cigarette, but that would mean going back out into the living room and facing John again. He didn’t think he could stand any more of that unsettling gaze, not to mention dealing with John’s displeasure should he elect to smoke. His laptop was in the living room and therefore out of reach; even his mobile was in the pocket of his Belstaff. He groaned and flopped back down onto the bed, huffing and curling up in a ball. Underneath the aggravation, a cold coil of worry was twisting through his gut. Something was going on here. He had no idea what, but he was fairly certain it was nothing good. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head, huddling under them. At length, he fell asleep.</p><p>Three hours later, he bolted upright in bed, certain that he knew what John had been mulling over. He’d been thinking about leaving—not just <em>whether</em> to leave, but <em>when</em>, and when to break the news to Sherlock. That would explain his lack of reaction to the date interruption incident. He wasn’t getting angry because he had decided there was no point. There would be no need to issue an ultimatum or threaten dire consequences if he wasn’t going to be around to be irritated anymore, would there? No doubt about it: John was going to leave.</p><p>This was entirely unacceptable, and John needed to hear that, pronto. Sherlock leapt out of bed to go tell him, but he’d fallen asleep still wearing his dressing gown. It tangled in the bedsheets, sending him toppling to the floor with a crash. The bedroom door opened almost instantly.</p><p>“Everything okay in here?” asked John, looking unnaturally lively for a man operating on zero sleep.</p><p>“John!” Sherlock’s tousled head popped up from the far side of the bed, followed by the rest of him as he extricated himself. He stumbled, catching himself on the mattress, then straightened to full verticality. He advanced toward John, untwisting his clothing as he went. The trailing hem of his dressing gown tripped him up, and he came within a hair’s breadth of face planting onto his bedroom floor.</p><p>“Easy, there,” said John, stepping forward and reaching out to steady him. Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John’s shirt and hung on like a hermit crab.</p><p>“You okay?” John asked, perplexed by Sherlock’s frantic manner.</p><p>“John, you can’t leave!”</p><p>“What, I can’t go to the shops?”</p><p>“No, John. I mean you can’t move out!”</p><p>John scrunched up his face. “Move out? What are you on about? Who said anything about moving out?”</p><p>“Well, that was what you were thinking about last night, wasn’t it?”</p><p>John blinked at him.</p><p>Ah. Clearly he’d got it wrong, then, although he would never admit as much to John. Sherlock let go of John’s shirt. He cleared his throat. “Ah...never mind,” he said, straightening his dressing gown as he moved toward the bathroom door. Now that his first theory had been disproved, Sherlock was back to having zero idea what was going on. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and not one he enjoyed.</p><p>But he had to get to the bottom of this. He cast a quizzical look back at John over his shoulder. “So, whatever it was, you...worked it out, then?”</p><p>John raised his eyebrows. “Hmm? Worked what out?”</p><p>“Whatever you were thinking about last night.”</p><p>“Oh, that.” John nodded and put a hand to his hip. “Yeah, came to a decision.”</p><p>“Oh. Okay,” said Sherlock. “Good. That’s good, I suppose. Any chance you’d care to share—”</p><p>“Sure, yeah.” The hand on his hip came up to scratch behind his opposite ear. “I’ve decided to give up dating.”</p><p>A wrinkle appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “Give up dating? Why?”</p><p>“Well, there’s really no point in it, is there? I mean, we both know how it goes: I meet a woman, maybe manage a few dates, get a leg over if I’m lucky, get cockblocked by my lunatic flatmate, she tells me to piss off or words to that effect, and then it’s back to square one like Sisyphus with his bloody boulder.” He waved a hand in the air. “So I’m giving it all up as a bad job. Just going to stop dating.”</p><p>Sherlock frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise?”</p><p>John snorted. “Since when do I ever do anything wise?”</p><p>Sherlock smirked. “Fair enough. But, John, we both know the demands of your transport rule your life. Especially your...baser urges. If you’re not dating, what are you going to do for—you know—for—”</p><p>John cocked his head quizzically, waiting for the rest of the sentence.</p><p>“—release?”</p><p>John scoffed. “'Release’? What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”</p><p>Sherlock moved uneasily—not a quite a squirm, but nearly. John’s gaze flickered over him, assessing.</p><p>“You know what the word means, John. Release. Of the...sexual...variety.”</p><p>“So, you mean release, as in...orgasm?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Climax?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Ejaculation?”</p><p>
  <em>“Yes!”</em>
</p><p>“Emission?”</p><p>Sherlock was rapidly reaching the end of his tether. “<em>Yes</em>, John, for God’s sake! Did you swallow a thesaurus when I wasn’t looking?” he snarled, waving his arms. “I’m talking about climaxing. Coming, ejaculating, jizzing, blowing a load!”</p><p>John snickered down at the floor, earning himself a patented Holmes scowl that did nothing whatever to quell his amusement. He would have bet good money against ever hearing the expression “blowing a load” spoken by his posh flatmate, and yet here they were.  </p><p>Sherlock straightened up, mouth tightening as he tried to maintain a modicum of dignity. He never had enjoyed being laughed at. “Now, are you going to <em>answer the bloody question</em>,” he spat, “or shall we shoehorn in another euphemism?”</p><p>John smirked, eyes twinkling. “Well, it seems your brother was right. Sex <em>does</em> alarm you after all.” His smirk expanded into a grin at the wordless howl of rage this produced. He leaned against the door jamb, crossing his arms and tilting his head. “Really, though, why should you care?”</p><p>Sherlock closed his eyes and did a three-count inhale, four-count exhale. He opened his eyes again. “About. What?” he asked in a preternaturally calm tone.</p><p>“My ‘release.’”</p><p>“Simply this, John: I need you at your best for the Work. I can’t have you distracted by...”</p><p>“Unmet needs?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Lust?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Desire?”</p><p>“Oh, for God’s—”</p><p>“Pent-up sexual frustration? Raging erections at inappropriate times?”</p><p>Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Yes. All of those.”</p><p>“Ah. Well, I think I’ve found a solution to that problem. Not perfect, but workable, I think.”</p><p>Sherlock looked like precisely what he was: a man torn between screaming and throttling his flatmate where he stood. “And that would be...?” he prompted through clenched teeth.</p><p>John pursed his lips, drawing in a breath through his nose and blowing it out again. “Guess I’ll just have to wank more,” he shrugged. “Tea?” He turned and made for the kitchen, whistling as he went.</p><p>The low, repetitive thumping that then resonated through 221B was caused by the forehead of the world’s only consulting detective making repeated contact with the nearest wall.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At first, nothing much seemed to change in the wake of John’s big pronouncement. In fact, things were better than ever. Sherlock had John’s full attention, with the exception of his shifts at the surgery (dull, but John seemed to feel they were necessary), and he no longer had to worry about interference from potential love interests. It was perfect.</p>
<p>John, for his part, went about his usual routine, working part-time at the surgery, helping Sherlock on cases, cooking dinner, sharing takeaway, helping Sherlock with his brain work, and smoothing things over when Sherlock inevitably deduced people to tears, fury and the occasional homicidal impulse. And through it all he was his usual self—steady, competent, charming and intimidating by turns—and always, always, he had Sherlock’s back. Sherlock was frankly delighted.</p>
<p>So for the first while, everything was just about perfect. Then Sherlock caught sight of John Watson’s penis. Things got a bit ridiculous after that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock was puttering around in the kitchen when it happened. He was prepping for a new experiment and had just picked up an Erlenmeyer flask when he heard John’s footsteps coming down the stairs from his room. </p>
<p>“Have you seen my mobile?” John asked from the living room. “I think I may have left it down here.” </p>
<p>Sherlock turned and froze at the sight that greeted him. John had come downstairs clad in only a bedsheet, draped toga-like over his left shoulder. </p>
<p>“I hhhaven’t seen it,” Sherlock stammered, transfixed by the sight of a half-draped army doctor.</p>
<p>John bent over his chair, rummaging around the seat cushion in search of the device. “Ah, got it!” he said, straightening up. He bounced the device in his palm. “Best get this on the charger.” As he turned to find his charging cable, the sheet snagged on his chair cushion and pulled away, giving Sherlock a sudden eyeful of John Watson’s (frankly breathtaking) penis. He gave a yelp. The flask had bounced off his big toe and rolled some distance away.</p>
<p>“You okay?” John asked, pulling the sheet back down into position. He found his charger cable and plugged the mobile in.</p>
<p>Sherlock bent down to retrieve his glassware, grateful for the sake of his toe that the flask had been empty. He could feel his cheeks flaming and hoped his flatmate would attribute it to his stooped position. “Uh, fine. Just a bit...clumsy this morning, apparently.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m for the shower. Put the kettle on?”</p>
<p>Sherlock hummed, turning back to his experiment.</p>
<p>John smirked all the way to the bathroom.</p>
<p>When he heard the water start up, Sherlock released a shuddering breath. He pushed the flask onto the worktop and slumped forward, bracing himself on his hands against the edge of it. He blinked unseeingly down at the counter. He had made some deductions about John’s physicality over the years, based on the other man’s distinctive gait, sitting posture, stride length, and one or two glimpses through tight clothing, but what he had just seen exceeded even his most generous estimates. For such a compact man, John was clearly big in all the ways that counted. His dick was frankly magnificent, and that was in a flaccid state. Imagine what it would look like hard! Suddenly Sherlock’s big toe wasn’t the only part of him throbbing.</p>
<p>He forgot all about the kettle.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Some days later, Sherlock got his wish. He had risen and showered early that morning. Just as he finished dressing and shut off the light in his room, John came downstairs for his morning shower. Seemingly unaware that Sherlock was up and could see him through the glass door to the bathroom, John flicked on the light, stripped out of his bathrobe, and hung it on the back of the door. He turned toward the shower, and that was when Sherlock saw it: John’s cock, hard and flushed and fully erect. As Sherlock watched, John reached down, giving himself a preparatory tug as he moved toward the bathtub, and Sherlock couldn’t help gasping at the sight. He stood rooted to the spot, feeling himself flush all the way to his hairline.</p><p>Holy—</p><p>Sherlock held his breath for a moment, then released it with an involuntary sound that could only be described as a squeak. He clapped a hand over his mouth. What the hell was the matter with him? One glimpse of a dick and suddenly he was blushing and moaning like a schoolgirl? Only it wasn’t just any dick. It was <em>John’s</em> dick, and that was a horse of an entirely different colour, wasn’t it? And speaking of horses, John was apparently hung like one.</p><p>“Stop it, <em>stop it!”</em> Sherlock hissed under his breath, fisting his hands at his temples. This was getting ridiculous. Clearly John had awoken with morning wood and decided to take care of it in the shower, as he was perfectly entitled to do. It wasn’t as though he was waving his dick in Sherlock’s face or something. Although if he were, Sherlock might not object—</p><p>No. No! <em>Stop it!</em></p><p>This was wrong. Sherlock's experience of sexual relationships may have been limited, but one aspect on which he was entirely clear was the concept of consent. John wasn't gay—he had made that abundantly clear many times over the years—and that meant he wasn't interested. Moreover, he had given up dating to focus on the Work, and here Sherlock was repaying him with inappropriate sexual fantasies about him and his (massive, mouthwatering—<em>stop that!</em>) dick! <em>Bit not good, Sherlock.</em></p><p>The water started up, shaking Sherlock out of his reverie. He moved closer to the glass door and closed his eyes, listening with all his might, but the sound of the shower covered any incriminating noises. It was only when the water shut off a bit later that he came back to himself, flushing hotly all over again at the realization that he had just been listening for sounds of his (totally heterosexual, <em>not-gay) </em>flatmate masturbating. This was beyond a bit not good. More like a metric fucktonne of not good, as John himself would say. <em>Get ahold of yourself, Holmes, </em>he thought. This was swiftly followed by a mental image that he resolutely thrust aside. “Not literally, for God’s sake!” he snarled. What the <em>hell</em> was the matter with him? He was becoming almost as sex-obsessed as John himself.</p><p>He shook his head and stalked out of his room to put on the kettle.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay on this one, folks. I hit a bit of a hump with where I wanted the story to go from here, but I think I've got over it now. Phew!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Over the next couple of weeks, Sherlock made an effort to give John the space he needed to see to his...release, reasoning that if John had given up dating to focus on the Work, then the least Sherlock could do was allow John to indulge undisturbed. So he tried to stay out of John’s way, but sometimes it seemed as though John was going out of his way to make it hard for him. So to speak.</p><p>One morning, Sherlock awoke to the sound of the bathroom door closing as John prepared to take a shower. The water started up and Sherlock rose, wrapping his bedsheet around him. John usually had his coffee after his shower, but sometimes he did it the other way around. Hoping it would be the latter, Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen in search of caffeine. John, bless him, had left him some coffee in the French press. Sherlock pulled down a mug and filled it, yawning widely. He dumped in his customary three sugars and took his first sip of the black elixir, sighing with satisfaction. His gaze settled on an unfamiliar item in the dish rack. He frowned. That hadn’t been there the night before.</p><p>He reached out and picked it up, turning it every which way for close examination. It was a black plastic cylinder, broader at one end than the other. The word “Fleshlight” was emblazoned on the side, and it did look a bit like a torch, although it was far too lightweight to actually be one. The broader end of the object, where the light source would be if it were an actual torch, consisted of a soft, rounded silicone surface, designed with a cleft and a small, puckered opening. The material was very soft to the touch, and so malleable that it stretched around Sherlock’s finger when he inserted it into the opening. He felt around the inside. It seemed to consist of more of the same material, but moulded into a variety of shapes and textures. Mystified, Sherlock put the item back on the dish rack.</p><p>Determined to get to the bottom of this, he fetched his mobile from the bedroom and returned to the kitchen to Google Fleshlight. He nearly dropped his mug at what came up. He stared at the black cylinder from across the room. That thing was a— and John had used it to— and Sherlock had touched it. Not just touched it, but <em>stuck his finger right into it</em>. Sherlock blushed scarlet at the thought. Then he sniffed his finger.</p><p>He was still standing there blushing furiously when a still-damp John exited the bathroom in nothing but a towel.</p><p>“Hey, Sherlock,” he said casually.</p><p>“Nothing!” Sherlock yelped, spinning around and sending coffee sloshing out of his mug.</p><p>“O...kay,” John said doubtfully, brow furrowing as he took in the spilled coffee and then Sherlock’s look of poleaxed embarrassment. “Everything okay?” he asked.</p><p>“Okay?” Sherlock squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Are you taking the piss?” he asked in his normal tone.</p><p>“Umm...not at the moment. What’s going on?”</p><p>Sherlock whirled around, stabbing an accusing finger in the direction of the dish rack.</p><p>“What is <em>that</em> doing there?”</p><p>“It’s a dish rack. A rack. For dishes. An item commonly found in kitchens and used to drip-dry the washing up. I realize you’re not the most domestic person, Sherlock, but I thought even you knew what—”</p><p>“Not the bloody dish rack!” Sherlock shouted. <em>“That!” </em>He jabbed his finger directly at the Fleshlight.</p><p>“Oh, right,” John said blandly. “Forgot I left that there. Sorry. I’ll take it back upstairs.” John extended a hand, clearly expecting Sherlock to pick the thing up and hand it to him, but Sherlock eyed the Fleshlight as though it might grow fangs and pounce. He stepped aside to allow John to reach for it himself.</p><p>“What the hell, John?”</p><p>“Problem?” John bounced the Fleshlight on his palm.</p><p>“Why was that <em>thing</em>—”</p><p>“It’s a Fleshlight, Sherlock—”</p><p>“Why was your—your—”</p><p>“Flesh. Light,” John supplied with exaggerated enunciation.</p><p>Sherlock glared at him. “—in <em>our kitchen</em>?”</p><p>John gave him an incredulous look. “Is it your turn to take the piss now?”</p><p>“No, I’m not taking the piss! I was barely awake, just wanted some coffee, and instead I found myself staring at a—a—”</p><p>“Flesh—” John began.</p><p>“—<em>masturbatory aid</em>,” Sherlock finished savagely. “Sitting on our dish rack. Where the clean dishes go!”</p><p>A twinkle appeared in John’s eye. “Oh, so your objection is that it’s unsanitary?”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>“Not that it’s sex-related?”</p><p>“For God’s sake, John—”</p><p>“No, no, I just want to be clear on this. You don’t think a sex toy should be in the kitchen because it’s unsanitary?”</p><p>Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, aiming for a dignified pose, as befitted a person in the throes of righteous indignation. “Well...yes, I suppose.”</p><p>John chortled. “Oh, that’s rich. I came home to a fucking <em>severed human head</em> in the fridge, Sherlock! More than once! And eyeballs in the microwave and thumbs in the salad drawer and an entire fungus <em>ecosystem</em> in the bread bin. And you’re objecting to a Fleshlight—a clean Fleshlight—in the dish rack.”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“Unbelievable. No, that is <em>really</em> amazing. Quite the impressive double standard you’ve got going there.” He was still chuckling as he made his way upstairs.</p><p>“You never answered my question, John!” Sherlock shouted after him.</p><p>“Jesus! You never give up, do you?” he heard John shout back. “Same reason all your shit was there: it was for an experiment!” John’s bedroom door shut firmly, putting an end to the conversation.</p><p>An <em>experiment</em>? Since when did John do experiments? Suddenly that off-balance feeling was back. Lovely. Sherlock growled as he poured the rest of his coffee down the drain and stomped off to dress.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For the record, John did not wash his Fleshlight out in the kitchen sink and then put it on the dish rack. The Fleshlight was brand new and unused at that point - this was all just part of John's secret evil plan to psych Sherlock out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, to Sherlock’s relief, there was no Fleshlight anywhere in evidence in the kitchen—or elsewhere in the flat, as far as he could determine. Good. Perhaps now they could get back to normal. John had his coffee and then his shower, leaving Sherlock to savour his own coffee in peace. Sherlock even went so far as to accept some toast with honey that John made for him, which he ate as he perused the papers. It was lovely.</p><p>John disappeared into the bathroom to shower. Some time later, Sherlock heard him exit the bathroom and traipse upstairs to dress, whistling a jaunty tune. At length Sherlock stood, gave a languorous stretch, and made his way to the bathroom to begin his own morning ablutions. He brushed his teeth, then undressed and turned to the bathtub.</p><p>Still in mid-yawn as he pulled back the shower curtain, he was wholly unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Suction-cupped to the shower tile, right at arse level, was a neon-green dildo. Even a quick glance was enough to show him how detailed it was, complete with veiny shaft, rounded bell end and what appeared to be a sizeable scrotum. Sherlock gave a yelp and jumped 36 centimetres straight back. He pressed his hands to his eyes, only to find there was a dildo-shaped afterimage on his retinas.</p><p><em>“JOHN!!!”</em> he bellowed.</p><p>There was a scuffling sound from above, followed by the thumping of John’s feet on the stairs as he came scrambling down to see what was wrong. “Sherlock?” came his voice from the living room as he scanned the flat for his companion.</p><p>“In here,” Sherlock growled, seething.</p><p>John’s head appeared around the edge of the door. “Sherlock? Something the matter?” he asked, sounding slightly out of breath.</p><p>Sherlock glared and pointed mutely at the shower wall.</p><p>“Oh, right,” said John, entering the room. “Forgot I left that there. I’ll...just—” He pointed in the direction of the tub and stepped past Sherlock to retrieve the offending item. He reached down, grasping the dildo by the shaft. He gave a decisive jerk and it popped off the wall with a hollow <em>pok! </em></p><p>Sherlock was fuming. “Let me guess,” he hissed. “Another <em>experiment</em>?”</p><p>“As a matter of fact, it was,” John said mildly. He looked Sherlock up and down, taking in not only his state of undress but also the slow blush blooming upward from chest to face as Sherlock realized it too. John licked his lips, unconsciously running a fingertip over the dildo’s frenulum as he cradled the neon-green scrotum in his other hand. “I’ll just...let you get on with it, then, shall I?”</p><p>Sherlock set his jaw, resisting the urge to wrap himself up in the shower curtain for modesty.</p><p>John cleared his throat. “Right, then,” he said, and took his sex toy back upstairs.</p><p>“Bloody <em>hell!</em>” Sherlock breathed once John was gone. He sank down onto the closed toilet lid, head in hands. At first he had been delighted that John was forgoing romantic relationships, but now he was beginning to think John’s new focus was coming at too high a price. But what was he supposed to do about it? Tell John to go out and get a leg over with some insipid female? Unacceptable. Tell him to move out? Of course not. Ridiculous. He needed John. Nothing was any good without him. John kept him right. But John was currently also bent on driving him mental, and quite thoroughly, too. There didn’t seem to be any ready solution to this quandary.</p><p>“Ugh!” he growled. Whatever the solution might be, he wasn’t going to find it sitting starkers on the loo lid. He shook his head and stood up, shoving the shower curtain out of his way. The only thing for it was to scrub his frustrations away.</p><p>It turned out to be the most abrasive shower of his life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This should be the last of the short chapters. After this they'll be a bit longer. At least I think they will. I've changed some of the tags because this story has taken a turn I didn't anticipate. Anyhoo, more to come...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First off, I'd like to apologize for the ridiculous delay in posting this. This is meant to be a funny fic, but what with COVID and the entire world turning into a Dumpster fire and reality sucking large hairy testicles, I didn't feel like laughing for a really long time. So my progress on this story stalled.<br/>The second reason for the delay was Fergus Shankley. This little Scottish bastard muscled his way into my fic and demanded to go on an adventure with Sherlock and John. This fic isn't about you, I said. Don't care, he said. It's a fic about wanking, I said. I wank, he said. Didn't need to know that, I said. Still don't care, he said. He sat down and refused to leave until I wrote him in. We argued for a while, but we all know how arguing with a little Scottish bastard usually turns out. So: everyone, meet Fergus Shankley.<br/>Anyway, all that to say, here's a new chapter, finally! And just in time for BBC Sherlock's tenth anniversary. Hard to believe it's been ten years! Here's to the next ten.<br/>And lastly, a word of warning: This chapter contains mentions of teens being held prisoner for sex trafficking purposes. However, there is nothing graphic, and the teens are rescued before anything bad happens to them.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock’s search for a solution to the John conundrum took a back seat for the next while, as Lestrade called them in to help with the Morris Lester case. They found Lestrade in his office, pastry in one hand and coffee cup in the other. “Hello, gents,” he greeted them cheerily. “Have a seat.”</p><p>Sherlock remained standing. “What have you got for us?” he asked.</p><p>“And a good morning to you, too,” said Greg, eyebrows climbing sardonically. “I’m well, thanks for asking. How are you?”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Impatient to find out <em>what you’ve got for us.</em>”</p><p>Greg sighed. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you.”  </p><p>With another eye roll, Sherlock turned and sat down on Greg’s office sofa, exaggerating every movement as he settled himself, crossed one leg over the other, and smoothed down his trousers. “There. Happy?”</p><p>“Delighted.” Greg smiled sweetly.</p><p>“Morning, Greg,” said John, taking a seat in the chair in front of Greg’s desk. “Don’t mind him. He woke up feeling particularly <em>Sherlock</em> this morning.”</p><p>“So I see,” said Greg. “Business as usual, in other words." He looked over at Sherlock. "Still, I think you’ll like this one. Morris Lester.” He picked a file up from his desk and handed it to John, who offered it to Sherlock. The detective didn’t so much as glance at it. Shrugging, John began leafing through the contents.</p><p>“And what makes this Lester so interesting, pray tell?” Sherlock asked, already sounding bored.</p><p>“Oh, he’s a real piece of work,” said Greg around his last bite of pastry. He downed the last of his coffee and continued. “Known drug trafficker, smuggler, suspected of the murders of two of his underworld rivals.”</p><p>“So?” Sherlock asked. “Two fewer pieces of crawling slime for you to exterminate. I’d call that a public service.”</p><p>Lestrade gave a sardonic smile. “So would I, but we both know that’s not how it works. Lester is also a suspected paedophile. From what we’ve been able to piece together, he seems to be preying on young runaways and homeless youth.”</p><p>Sherlock’s expression hardened.</p><p>Greg nodded. “Yeah, thought that might get your attention. There have been three disappearances of young runaways—probably more, but three we can be sure about. They’re hard to trace, obviously. But what we’ve managed to find so far is that Lester picks them up when they arrive in London, offers them food and a place to stay, and then they vanish.”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “How long has this been going on?”</p><p>“The first disappearance was two weeks ago. The other two are more recent.”</p><p>“But something’s changed. The problem isn’t new. Why am I being brought in all of a sudden?”</p><p>“Ah. Well, the most recent disappearance is the son of a prominent government minister.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course. And now suddenly everyone cares.”</p><p>“Now it’s become high-profile,” said Lestrade, “and I’ve received orders from on high to get to the bottom of it. The kid, Nicholas Luddington, is originally from Somerset. Parents in the middle of an ugly divorce, home life difficult. He ran away, was traced as far as London. His parents are beside themselves. Nicholas was last seen near in an industrial estate in Tottenham, which happens to be where Lester has his headquarters.”</p><p>“Well...Lester sounds like a fine, upstanding citizen,” John summed up, slapping the file shut and tossing it onto Greg’s desk. He sat back in his chair, slapping his hands onto his thighs. “So. How do we take him down?”</p><p>Greg grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.” He looked up through his office’s glass divider as a figure approached. He rose and opened his office door to let the newcomer in. “Come in, Ferg.” John and Sherlock’s eyes widened as they took in the diminutive man who walked in wearing high-top trainers, ripped jeans and a twenty øne piløts t-shirt, all topped off with a Day-Glo orange fauxhawk.</p><p>“Gentlemen,” Greg said, “this is DS Fergus Shankley. He was on loan to the Met from Aberdeen for another operation that just wrapped up. Ferg, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”</p><p>“Is the Met employing sixth-formers now, George?” Sherlock drawled.</p><p>“Oi!” John barked at Sherlock, then rose to shake Shankley’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “Don’t mind him, he’s got no filter. But he...does have a point.” He looked Shankley up and down. “No offence, mate, but you barely look old enough to drive, let alone be a copper.”</p><p>“No, it’s okay,” said Shankley. “I ge’ that a lot.” He smiled winningly. “My boyish charm helps me get the baddies to underestimate me. Appearances to the contrary, I am a full-fledged police officer.”</p><p>“And very good at what he does,” Greg added.</p><p>“You want him to go undercover as a runaway,” Sherlock said to Greg. “And you want me to use my homeless network as lookouts and informants. Obvious.”</p><p>“Got it in one. We’re setting up a task force—my team, Fergus here, the two of you, and any members of your homeless network willing to work with us. The goal is first and foremost to find the missing kids, of course, but secondarily to infiltrate Lester’s operations and find a way to take him down. If you’d like to follow Shankley, we can join the rest of the team in the incident room and get things rolling.” He gestured to the door and the other three men exited, Lestrade following in their wake.</p><p>Anderson, conferring with Sally at his desk, looked up and snickered at the sight of Sherlock bookended by the two smaller men. “Looks like Strider found the Hobbits,” he muttered, and Sally snorted.</p><p>The remark brought Shankley up short. “Hobbits, is it?” he asked. He turned to John, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Do I look like a Hobbit t'you?”</p><p>John looked him up and down. “Not especially. I think it’s mostly the orange hair? But I’ve always felt an affinity with Bilbo Baggins, myself.”</p><p>Shankley gave him an appraising look in turn and nodded. “Aye, I could see that. Hobbit isn’t really much of an insult, though. I mean, Hobbits are small but they kick arse when needed, don’t they? There’re worse things than bein’ a Hobbit.”</p><p>“True,” John conceded. “I mean, if you want to make fun of someone’s height, you could go the food route and call them, say, bite size.”</p><p>“Aye,” Shankley pursed his lips. “I’m partial to pipsqueak, myself. Or perhaps Ickle Bickle.”</p><p>“Those are good options,” John acknowledged, tapping a finger against his upper lip. Sherlock and Greg watched the exchange in amusement. “But if you wanted to keep with the fictional character theme, you could opt for Ewok, or Munchkin or even Oompa Loompa.”</p><p>Shankley nodded. “Aye, those are classics. Then there’s the inanimate object category. In there we’ve got arm rest—”</p><p>“What about coffee table?” John supplied.</p><p>Shankley snapped his fingers. “Half pint!”</p><p>“Booster seat.”</p><p>“And let’s not forget the catch-alls, like, er, jockey.”</p><p>“Low rider.”</p><p>“Smalls.”</p><p>“Whippersnapper.”</p><p>“There are just so many creative options,” Shankley said. “But Hobbit? Really? So obvious.”</p><p>“Unimaginative,” John added crossing his arms and eyeing Donovan and Anderson. “Not to mention childish.”</p><p>“Positively puerile,” Shankley agreed. “I feel there can be only one appropriate response to such an infantile remark.”</p><p>“Agreed,” John said.   </p><p>The two men turned toward Donovan and Anderson and blew a pair of perfectly synchronized raspberries at them before turning and striding away, heads held high. Sherlock’s rumbling chuckle followed them down the corridor.</p><p>That evening, the Lester investigation began in earnest. Sherlock stayed in character as himself to avoid arousing suspicion, but he checked in with his homeless network more frequently than usual for intel on Lester. As planned, Shankley went undercover as a newly arrived youth, in the hope that he would be approached by one of Lester’s minions. His accent helped sell the ruse.</p><p>The task force team deployed around train stations and areas where homeless youth were known to congregate, keeping an eye out for anything unusual and doing their best to keep track of young people, especially those newly arrived in London. John was sent in to provide free medical care for the homeless, which brought him into contact with some of the young runaways and allowed him to meet covertly with Shankley to share info on Lester’s activities.</p><p>It took six days for Lester’s crew to approach and begin grooming Shankley, and several more before the Scot was invited to Lester’s headquarters in a rundown building in Tottenham.</p><p>Shankley’s first two visits to Lester’s den were relatively innocuous, although it was clear the grooming was intensifying. He was offered food and a place to stay and then allowed to go on his way. Shankley was able to report back on the layout of the place and provide a small amount of insight into how Lester’s operation worked based on information he was able to glean during his limited access to the place. However, he had seen no evidence that any young people apart from himself were or ever had been in the building. If Lester really had the missing kids, he was keeping them firmly out of sight.</p><p>The case came to a head on Shankley’s third visit to the den. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade’s crew were stationed all through the area, ready to move in at a moment’s notice. Shankley was taken inside for a special meeting with Lester; everyone knew what that meant, and they were all on high alert. The officers all had radios, of course, but Sherlock had taken the additional precaution of procuring tiny earpieces for himself, John and Shankley so they could keep in constant contact and hear everything going on inside the den. The earpieces were small enough to escape notice and would eliminate the need for Shankley to wear a wire.</p><p>Once everyone was in place, Shankley went in. Sherlock and John listened as he was greeted by Lester’s men and taken in to see Lester himself. Lester and Shankley chatted casually for a bit, and then Lester offered to show him his “secret party room” in the cellar. They could hear the two men chatting as they made their way down a flight of stairs. Sherlock signalled Lestrade to get ready.</p><p>“It’s right down here,” they heard Lester say. There was a sound, like a prolonged burst of heavy static, and then nothing. Shankley’s earpiece had gone dead.</p><p>John put a hand to his ear. “Shankley, we’ve lost you. Are you reading me? Cough if you can hear me. Shankley?” Silence was the only response. John turned to Sherlock. “Are you getting anything?” Sherlock shook his head, expression grim. The earpieces were supposed to have a range of 200 metres, and they were well within that limit. Either Shankley’s earpiece had failed, or something was interfering with the signal. Either way, they were out of communication, with no way of knowing what was happening inside Lester’s headquarters.</p><p>Lestrade came over, face grim. “We can’t leave him in there without backup, with no way to communicate. He knows how to fight, but he’s unarmed and alone in there with a paedophile.”</p><p>“We need to get in there,” John agreed. “We know Lester’s got at least three guys in there with him, and they may well be armed. For Shankley’s safety, it would be best if we didn’t go in with guns blazing.”</p><p>“Right,” Lestrade agreed. He waved two of his men over. “Wilkins, Jones, we need a way in that won’t put them on high alert. We don’t want to risk them harming Shankley. We know Lester’s got at least three men in there, possibly more, possibly armed. I’d rather not have to beat in the front door. So it’s your job to get us in.”</p><p>“Right, boss,” said Wilkins. “On it.”</p><p>Lestrade addressed the rest of his squad. “Everyone else, I want you deployed out of sight but as close to the door as you can get. Once we’re in, our mission is twofold: find Shankley and make sure he’s safe, and find and secure Lester. Everybody gear up and move in.”</p><p>Once the squad was in position, Wilkins and Jones weaved drunkenly up to the front door and began pounding on it, shouting for their fictitious mate, Nigel. “Oi! Nige! Shift arse and get out ‘ere!”</p><p>The door was swiftly answered by one of Lester’s henchmen. As soon as he opened the door, Wilkins and Jones barged in, still shamming drunkenness and shouting for their mate. Another of Lester’s men showed up to see what the ruckus was about, followed by Lester himself a minute later. As soon as Lester came into view, Lestrade gave the signal and everyone moved in. Some of his crew put Lester and his goons up against the wall and searched them, while the rest of the team went through the building.</p><p>The search turned up nothing. No drugs, no weapons, not even a pile of suspicious cash. No missing youths, and most importantly, no Shankley. He seemed to have vanished into nothing.</p><p>“That is not <em>possible</em>!” Lestrade raged, and sent Sherlock in to go over the place again.</p><p>Sherlock began by checking the dimensions of the building against the size of its rooms, but there was no unused space. All walls and floors were checked for secret panels and passages, but nothing was found. The walls and floor of the unfinished cellar were solid concrete, with the floor sloping gently down to a large rectangular drain in its centre. Shankley had vanished as thoroughly as if he’d been a figment of their collective imagination.</p><p>“All right, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, stalking towards him. “One of my men is missing and we can’t find him. Lester is refusing to say word one without his solicitor present. Anything could be happening to my guy, and that is unacceptable.” He jabbed a finger at the ground. “Work out where he’s gone, and do it now.”</p><p>“I can’t just turn it on like a tap,” Sherlock protested. He looked around, startling a bit as he clocked the entire squad standing about, staring expectantly as though he was about to produce Shankley from the depths of his Belstaff. “What are you lot staring at? I can’t just pull clues out of my ar—”</p><p>“<em>Okay</em>, time out!” John cut in sharply. He drew Sherlock aside, away from the intrusive gaze of the squad. Sherlock always thought better without distractions. He took a breath as Sherlock paced across the broken pavement of the building’s yard, right hand twitching at his side. Lestrade’s crew looked on from some distance away.</p><p>John kept his voice low so the others couldn’t eavesdrop. “Okay, so...what have we got?” He turned and hooked a thumb towards the building they had just searched. “We all saw Shankley go through that door, we know he was in there, and now there’s no sign of him. He can’t have vanished into thin air, so...what?” John gestured at the barren yard surrounding them. “It’s not like he could be hiding behind a tree or under a rock somewhere...”</p><p>“A rock,” Sherlock echoed, brow furrowing. He twirled around, pacing and unconsciously wringing his hands. “A rock, a rock...there’s something—”</p><p>“Sherlock—” Lestrade called, but John held up a hand, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock. Lestrade subsided, recognizing the look of Sherlock picking up a scent. Beside him, Donovan made an impatient sound and took a step toward the two men, but Lestrade raised a finger, indicating she should wait. Donovan sighed and stepped back, arms crossed, looking annoyed. Lestrade settled back and waited for the magic to happen.</p><p>“There’s something off about this building, John. Something doesn’t add up.” Sherlock turned toward John, eyes intent as he worked out what it was that was nagging at him. “The whole place is old, run down, hasn’t had any upkeep in years. All except—”</p><p>“—the cellar!” John finished excitedly, grabbing Sherlock’s forearm. “It’s not run down at all!”</p><p>“Exactly,” Sherlock breathed. “You did observe. It’s the opposite of run down. Stone and mortar covered over with concrete, and fairly recently, too. Spotless floor, new drain. Why go to so much effort and expense to modernize an unused space but leave the rest of the building so run down?”</p><p>“Doesn’t compute, does it?”</p><p>“No, it doesn’t. But there’s something else. There was...you heard it, John.” Sherlock turned towards him. He raised a hand, index finger extended. “Just before Shankley’s earpiece failed, there was a sound—”</p><p>“Yeah, a burst of static.”</p><p>“That’s what I thought, too, but what if it wasn’t static? What if it was something else?”</p><p>“Such as...what?”</p><p>“Maybe it was the sound of something heavy being displaced. A dragging sound.” Sherlock whirled around, coat flaring. “Lestrade! Let me back in. I need to see the cellar again.”</p><p>Greg nodded to one of the constables, who stepped aside and allowed Sherlock and John back into the building, Greg on their tails. They made their way to the cellar stairs, descending with care into the dim space. Sherlock pulled the cord for the light and the single bare bulb on the ceiling flared to life. He stepped out into the centre of the space, turning slowly about. The farthest corners of the cellar remained in deep shadow. Sherlock pulled a torch from his pocket and began playing it slowly over the walls and floors, checking every inch.</p><p>“What are we looking for?” asked Lestrade.</p><p>“An explanation,” Sherlock answered.</p><p>Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’d appreciate one. An explanation for what?”</p><p>Sherlock moved to one corner of the room and ran his torch up the seam where the two walls met. “For why this room is so incongruous when compared to the rest of the building. The rest of the place is a tip, but this space is pristine.”</p><p>“And it’s completely empty,” John mused as he played his torch around the cellar. “Nothing stored here. No boxes or bins, no discarded furniture, barely a speck of dust. And not even a hint of damp.”</p><p>“Damp,” Sherlock echoed, still staring at the wall. John shone his torch in the detective’s direction, throwing his figure into sharp relief against the back wall. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and whirled around to face John. “Of course! You are brilliant!”</p><p>“O...kay,” John said. “Ta, I think. How was I brilliant this time?”</p><p>Sherlock advanced back into the middle of the room, crouching down to examine the overlarge drain in the centre of the floor. It was a rectangular stainless steel grill in a concrete frame, measuring perhaps two feet wide by four feet long. “Why, in a newly refurbished cellar with no evidence of damp, would one need such a huge drain?”</p><p>“It is oversized, isn’t it?” Lestrade asked. “It’s odd.”</p><p>Sherlock threw himself down onto his stomach on the floor, shining his torch into and around the edges of the drain. “Ah. Thought so!” he said. He scrambled back onto his feet. “Now, where is it...?” He began playing his torch over every surface in the cellar, closely inspecting the beams and pillars from waist height up. Mystified, John and Lestrade moved aside to allow him unfettered access. “It wouldn’t be too far away,” Sherlock muttered, turning about.</p><p>“What wouldn’t?” John asked. He was stood just beneath the bare ceiling bulb, and Sherlock turned to squint at him. He cocked his head, gaze drawn to the light just above John’s head.</p><p>“Of course,” he breathed. “Why would there be only one bulb for this entire cellar?” He approached, staring up at the light, and put a hand up to feel around the edges of the light fixture. “Maybe because—yes! That burst of static we heard, John. What if it wasn’t static at all?” he grinned. “What if it was <em>this</em>?” He pressed firmly, and with a heavy grinding sound, the entire drain assembly began slowly rising out of the floor.</p><p>It fetched up just below the ceiling joists, revealing itself to be a three-sided steel mesh cage capped off with the concrete frame for the faux drain. In all, it was about six feet tall and wide enough to hold one person, or perhaps two if they weren’t overlarge and had no concept of personal space.</p><p>“I think we’ve found where Shankley went,” Sherlock said. He turned to John, gesturing toward the cage. “Shall we?”</p><p>“Hang on,” Greg objected. “There’s no way of knowing what’s down there!”</p><p>“Only one way to find out,” answered Sherlock, grinning.</p><p>“Bloody hell. All right, but I’m sending some of my people down right behind you.” He moved to the foot of the stairs and shouted upward. “Evans! Bright! Get down here.”</p><p>“Ready?” Sherlock asked John.</p><p>John turned away from Lestrade and surreptitiously took out his gun, keeping it out of sight. He wasn’t supposed to have it, after all. “After you.”</p><p>As the two PCs came scrambling down the stairs, Sherlock and John crammed themselves into the steel cage. It began moving as soon as they were in—weight-activated, apparently. John gripped his gun tighter. There was no way of knowing what awaited them down there, but odds were it was nothing good.</p><p>The cage descended slowly, coming to a stop with a jolt. The two men found themselves staring into a long corridor made of the same concrete as the cellar they had just left. It was narrow, dimly lit, and also entirely deserted. A cubbyhole in the wall to their right was filled with firearms, which explained the lack of weapons inside Lester's den. They exited the cage-lift and it immediately rose again, going back to fetch the two constables Greg was sending down.</p><p>The two men advanced down the corridor, playing their torches over the walls and ceiling as they went. “We’re not under Lester’s building anymore,” Sherlock said as he inspected the tunnel. “This leads to the building immediately behind it, on the next street. So Lester's den is just a front, a distraction to keep the authorities busy. Meanwhile, Lester conducts his real business from the building just behind, which the police aren't watching. Clever.” The passage was about 30 metres in length, ending at a steel door—locked, of course. Sherlock fished his set of lock picks out of his Belstaff. “Shine the torch over here, and try to block their view. I’m not supposed to have these, either,” he said, nodding toward the constables who were making their way towards them down the hall. Behind them, they heard the cage begin another laborious trip upward, this time to fetch Lestrade. They shared a grin, and Sherlock went to work on the lock. “Got it!” he said a few seconds later. He grasped the doorknob. “Ready?” he asked.</p><p>John gripped his pistol, still mindful to keep it hidden from the two PCs. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Oi!” said Bright from down the hall. Or maybe it was Evans. One of the two. “We wait for DI Lestrade. Boss’s orders!”</p><p>Sherlock scoffed. “You can wait if you want to. He’s not <em>my</em> boss. I’m going in,” he said, and opened the door. The space beyond was in pitch blackness, and before either man could react, a diminutive figure shot out from beside the door and tackled Sherlock to the floor. Bright muttered a curse and shoved past John to try to separate the two men writhing and kicking on the floor.</p><p>John’s torch caught a flash of neon orange hair. “Oi!” he shouted. “Shankley! Stop, it’s Sherlock!”</p><p>The struggle ceased instantly. Shankley’s head popped up from behind the detective, who released him and sat back, breathing hard. “Well, if isn’t my old pal Bilbo!” Shankley panted, grinning. “Come to take me back to the Shire?”</p><p>Bright was fit to be tied. “And <em>that’s</em> why when the boss says wait, we wait!” he snarled at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and got to his feet before leaning down to help Shankley up.</p><p>“Sorry about that, mate,” said Shankley as he hoisted himself to his feet. “Thought it was one of those wankstains comin’ back.”</p><p>“No hard feelings. Should have been expecting it, really,” Sherlock answered as he straightened his Belstaff. He rubbed at the spot on his jaw where Shankley had landed a solid punch. He glanced over at John, who was observing all this with his arms crossed. “Short Scotsmen—stumpy canisters of compressed rage, every one of them.”</p><p>“Aye, ge’ stuffed, mate,” Shankley said affably.</p><p>“I second that sentiment,” said John.</p><p>Sherlock grinned.</p><p>There was a clinking sound from somewhere in the dark. “Hello?” asked a young voice.</p><p>By this time, Lestrade had arrived. He greeted Shankley with relief, ascertained that he was unharmed, and began searching for the light switch. A few seconds later, a set of fluorescent tubes flickered to life. “Oh, my God!” Greg exclaimed as the light revealed a long row of ratty mattresses along the far wall. Three of the beds were occupied by young people—two boys and a girl—each of them shackled to the wall with a length of chain. The captives blinked and squinted in the sudden light. Lestrade couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief as he recognized one of them as Nicholas Luddington, the government minister’s son, alive and apparently unharmed.</p><p>“Right. Bright, I need you to go back the way we came, and tell the squad to position themselves around the building immediately behind Lester’s, which is where we are now. I want it cleared out. Secure and detain anyone inside.” He gestured at the stairs in one corner of the cellar. “Once it’s secure, I want that door opened, and I want someone to find the keys to these shackles. Then we’re going to need social services down here, and ambulances for transportation to hospital. Got it?”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” Bright said, and vanished back down the hallway.</p><p>Lestrade approached the beds and knelt down. “You just hang on, now,” he told the kids kindly. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”</p><p>Besides Luddington, the other captives turned out to be Jesse Lincoln, a 16-year-old runaway from Manchester, and 17-year-old Cynthia Carrington-Knowles, the niece of a peer, whom no one had known was missing. She had finagled this by the simple expedient of telling her posh boarding school she would be spending the midterm break on an Alaskan cruise with her parents and telling her parents she would be remaining at school. Her planned party week in London hadn’t turned out quite as she had hoped.</p><p>The case, already high-profile by reason of Nicholas Luddington’s involvement, now achieved stratospheric importance. Moe Lester was exposed not only as a paedophile but also a sex trafficker, and the evidence uncovered in this second building would be sufficient to bring down not only Lester himself, but also his entire trafficking ring and several of its clients. It was shaping up to be a huge victory for NSY.</p><p>Lestrade ensured that the kids were freed from their shackles, taken out to the waiting ambulances, and given an initial once-over. They huddled under their shock blankets, sipping tea and blinking in the flashing lights as John and the paramedics checked them over. A few quiet questions from Lestrade and Shankley established that they had been held prisoner but not otherwise molested; they said Lester had been keeping them for a select client willing to pay extra for “undamaged goods.” Once word got out that a peer’s young relative had been rescued from a life of sexual slavery, the brass began coming out of the woodwork. First the Chief of Police, then the mayor of London and eventually the illustrious uncle himself showed up to heap praise and thanks on Lestrade, Shankley, Sherlock, and NSY as a whole. Then the press got wind of it and a media circus ensued. Fortunately the ambulances had departed by that time. Once all the shouting was over, even Mycroft materialized to offer his congratulations along with a lift back to Baker Street. By that time it was so late as to be verging on early, and they accepted gratefully.</p><p>When they arrived back at 221B, Sherlock and John were exhausted but elated. They crept quietly up the stairs to avoid disturbing Mrs. Hudson and shared a silent smile as they hung their coats on the living room door hook. John turned to Sherlock, looking up into his face, and the taller man faltered at the look of open fondness in John’s eyes.</p><p>“You were great tonight,” John said, smiling softly. “You saved three kids and took down a human trafficking ring. You were brilliant. Amazing.”</p><p>When had they moved so close together? Sherlock looked down into John’s eyes. “I didn’t do any of that alone,” he said, gaze roaming over the beloved face. How could any man be so perfect? “But thank you. And you...as always...were indispensable.”</p><p>John smiled up at him, then put a hand to Sherlock’s bicep. “We’re a good team.”</p><p>“Always have been,” Sherlock agreed.</p><p>John removed his hand from Sherlock’s arm and used it to stifle a yawn. “I don’t know if it’s early or late, but I do know I’m knackered. You?”</p><p>Sherlock collected his scattered wits. “Er...yeah. Tired, but still a bit wound up. Think I’ll play for a bit...unwind.”</p><p>“Great,” John said, smiling. The fondness was still there. “Try not to wake Mrs. H. I’ll see you later.” He stepped away.</p><p>Sherlock couldn’t help swaying forward as his body unconsciously tried to follow. Why could he still feel John’s hand on his arm even though it wasn’t there anymore? “Later,” he echoed. He gazed at John’s back as the smaller man ascended the stairs, then breathed a soft sigh of relief. Somehow this case—this evening—seemed to have righted things between him and John. He turned and picked up his violin. He stood at the window and began playing softly, contemplatively, until the last of the adrenaline burned off and fatigue overtook him in its stead. He drew out the final note, letting it linger sweetly in the air.</p><p><em>“Oh...God,” </em>John’s voice said in his ear.</p><p>Sherlock twisted around, startled, but there was no one behind him. Of course—the earpiece. He had forgotten all about it.</p><p>John’s voice sounded again. It was muffled—John had clearly removed his earpiece and placed it some distance away but hadn’t turned it off. <em>“Fuck!” </em>John swore, voice strained. He was breathing hard.</p><p>Sherlock put a hand to his ear. “John?” he called. He placed his violin and bow on the coffee table and scrambled for the stairs. John was clearly in pain! “Are you okay?”</p><p>There was no response. Sherlock flew up the stairs, calling out as he went. He paused to knock on John’s door, but there was no answer or further sound from within. That was definitely not normal. He turned the knob and went in.</p><p>The sight that met his eyes stopped him cold. John was lying supine on the bed. His head was out of sight, hidden behind his open laptop, which was sitting on a bed tray John had positioned just to the left of him. And John was most definitely not in distress—far from it, judging by the enthusiastic way he was pumping his erect cock. A headphone cable snaking out of the audio port explained John's failure to respond when Sherlock had called and knocked.</p><p>Abruptly Sherlock realized that he was stood there watching his flatmate having a wank, and that this might not be quite the done thing. Best to go. But just as he turned to leave, he heard John’s breath hitch and couldn’t help turning back. John’s body convulsed, bollocks contracting as thick streams of come spurted out over his chest and belly. He must have dislodged his headphones, because all at once Sherlock could hear the audio from the porn video he’d been viewing. The sound was tinny but unmistakable: a man in the midst of a frenetic and very vocal climax. Panting hard, John sank back against the pillows, still holding his softening cock. Sherlock shut the door silently behind him and fled downstairs.</p><p>Below, he stood swaying and panting in the living room doorway as his mind reeled. He reached out to steady himself against the door jamb. The room was far too warm and his skin felt two sizes too small. What was happening to him? Was this a panic attack? He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. This was ridiculous. Why was he so worked up about John masturbating? It was something everyone did, for God’s sake. A biological imperative. Perfectly normal. If John wanted to wank in the privacy of his own room, that was his prerogative, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. And if he elected to watch pornography while stroking his generously proportioned member, there was nothing wrong with that, was there? No, there was not. And if said stroking resulted in jet after jet of come spurting out of said member—</p><p><em>Oh, God</em>, Sherlock thought, pressing a hand to his own crotch and feeling his cock throb in response. He moved his hand just a bit and nearly came on the spot. Oh, bugger. This was not good. He had the presence of mind to snatch the earpiece out of his ear and chuck it in the general direction of the sofa before fleeing to his room. There he shoved his trousers and pants down, fell to his knees, and stroked himself to a shattering climax right there on his bedroom floor. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “Shit.” He knelt there, panting, for some time as he waited for sensation to return to his lower extremities. Everything from the waist down had gone all watery. Once he felt steady enough, he reached over and picked up an old t-shirt to wipe the mess off his hand and clean up the floor. He struggled to his feet and chucked the shirt and his bottoms into his laundry hamper before stumbling back to the bed and face planting onto the mattress.</p><p><em>This is really, really not good,</em> was all he had time to think before sleep snuffed his thoughts out like a candle.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Several hours later, Sherlock blinked his way back to wakefulness. He sat up in bed, surprised to find himself still wearing his dress shirt and suit jacket. Well, it certainly wasn’t unheard of for him to fall into bed fully dressed after a long and exhausting case, but John usually saw to it that he at least stripped down to his underwear first. Never had he fallen into bed naked from the waist down, though. Odd. Then the recollection of the previous night’s events came flooding back—the case, the earpiece, the chain-reaction wanking. Sherlock groaned and flopped back down onto his pillows. How was he ever supposed to face John today, having seen what he’d seen last night and done what he’d done afterward?</p><p>Sherlock thought back to the previous night, replaying events as they had occurred. As far as he could determine, John had remained unaware of Sherlock’s presence in his room, but <em>Sherlock</em> knew he had been there, and just the idea of trying to look John in the eye with that knowledge in the back of his mind was...squirm-inducing. The very thought made him quail. Maybe he could just curl back up under the covers and avoid John in perpetuity. Good plan, that. Capital. <em>Commence Operation Eternal Flatmate Avoidance</em>, he thought, and burrowed back down into his bed. He punched his pillow into shape and wriggled about until he was comfortable again. Naturally, this was when his bladder sounded the red alert. Sherlock sighed and sat back up, pushing the covers off. Bloody transport. Loo it was, then. He rose and plodded into the bathroom, stifling a yawn as he went.</p><p>He saw to his most pressing needs, then lifted his dressing gown down off the door hook and wrapped himself up in it. He took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and exited the bathroom, listening carefully for any sign of John. There was nothing. A buzzing sound from the kitchen alerted him to the presence of his mobile, sitting on the table atop a folded note.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Hey, Sherlock. Your phone was having fits in your coat pocket and I didn’t want it to wake you, so I put it on silent. Hope that’s okay. The surgery called—they’re shorthanded today, so I’m going in for a few hours. I was thinking maybe Thai later? Let me know.</p>
  <p>See you tonight.</p>
  <p>John.</p>
</blockquote><p>Well, that was a relief, then. From the casual tone of the note, John was apparently unaware of what Sherlock had witnessed last night, or if he was aware, he was unfazed by it. That would make things infinitely easier. But in any event, Sherlock didn’t have to worry about John for several more hours. He unlocked his phone. Three texts and a call from Lestrade about the Lester case news conference scheduled for—Sherlock checked the time—an hour ago, as it turned out (oops)—and 17 voice mails from journalists seeking quotes and interviews. Sherlock deleted the lot, put his phone on the charger, and went to shower.</p><p>Once the water came up to temp, Sherlock climbed in and ducked his head under the spray, sighing as the warm water cascaded down over his body. He reached for his shampoo and lathered up, then applied conditioner before pouring some body wash onto a bath puff and sudsing up. He luxuriated in the silken feel of the puff against his skin and inhaled deeply, enjoying the spicy, musky scent of the body wash. He caught a whiff of John’s shampoo, and that sent his thoughts back to last night. His mind replayed the sight of John stretched out on his bed, hard and aroused, panting as he stroked himself to climax. Sherlock found himself growing hard again at the memory. He ran the bath puff over his stiffening shaft, hissing in a breath as the puff teased the sensitive head. Would John’s tongue feel like that? Would John take him into his mouth, tighten his lips around Sherlock’s cock like this? Sherlock reached down and closed his fist around himself, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he gave himself a long, slow pull. Yes, John would suck him off, take him as far down as he could and use his hand to stroke the base, then knead his bollocks as he mouthed over the tip. Sherlock closed his eyes, bracing his free arm against the tile as he picked up the pace, stroking harder and faster. A sudden, vivid image sprang to mind of John kneeling at his feet, those deep blue eyes raised to his, cheeks hollowing out as he worked over Sherlock’s prick, licking and sucking—</p><p>The image sent Sherlock over the edge, and with a sharp cry he came convulsively all over the shower wall. <em>God.</em> Gasping and panting, he pressed his forehead against the cold tile and waited for his legs to stop shaking. Whether appropriate or not, there was no denying that these fantasies of John were making him come harder than anything else ever had—not even the calendar full of photos of scantily clad soldiers he’d secretly wanked to in his teens. When he felt steady enough, he rinsed himself (and the shower tile) down before shutting off the water and climbing out.</p><p>Twenty-three minutes later, shaved, dressed and coiffed, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in search of caffeine. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had been up while he was in his room, as evidenced by the tray that had materialized on the kitchen worktop. It held a fresh pot of tea, complete with striped cosy, along with a cup, saucer, and small plate of scones. Sherlock silently blessed his landlady, stuffed a whole scone into his mouth, and began scrounging around for the milk and sugar. Once his tea was doctored to his liking, he sat down at the kitchen table, phone in hand, and sipped his drink as he scrolled. He inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of the tea and letting the steam from the cup curl around his face. The bergamot seemed particularly aromatic this morning, and the tea was a perfect complement to the buttery, sweet tanginess of Mrs. Hudson’s scones. In fact, Sherlock was feeling remarkably well and relaxed at the moment—no doubt the effect of two mindblowing orgasms within the space of a few hours. He wondered if John might have felt similarly when he woke up this morning, given the explosive climax Sherlock had witnessed—</p><p>And just like that, Sherlock was hard again. He sighed and sat back in his chair, staring down at the obstinate member now tenting his trousers. What the <em>hell</em> was the matter with him? Yes, he had been attracted to John from the very first, but until recently he had managed to deal with that without sporting a permanent boner. Of course, until recently he’d never seen John’s penis, either flaccid or erect, nor had he ever witnessed him ejaculating all over his own torso. But ever since he had—</p><p>Sherlock’s cock twitched in his pants and he felt some precome spurt out into his underwear. Yes. That.</p><p>Sherlock pressed a hand to his groin, closing his eyes and surrendering to the memory. He replayed the scene in John’s room last night, picturing himself bursting into the room, seeing again the way John’s cock had jutted up as he stroked it, heard the wet sounds as his slicked-up fist pumped it from root to tip until—</p><p>Sherlock opened his eyes with a gasp.</p><p>—until John had thrown his head back while climaxing and his headphones had fallen off, and Sherlock could hear the audio from the porn video John had been watching.</p><p>And then Sherlock remembered the thing that he had failed to notice at the time, caught up as he was in his own arousal: there hadn’t been just one man’s voice on that video. There had been two.</p><p>He sat stunned for a moment at the realization: John had been watching gay porn. <em>What?</em> Hang on, that couldn’t be right. He shook his head. Sherlock closed his eyes again, bringing his hands to his temples as he replayed his memory of the scene, but the result was the same. No doubt about it: John had been watching gay porn.</p><p>
  <em>John “Not-Gay” Watson had been watching gay porn.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock shot to his feet, sending his chair toppling to the floor. All thought of his breakfast vanished. He needed to see the video John had been watching, <em>now</em>. Where was John’s laptop? He scrambled into the living room, twisting wildly about as he scanned the room for the computer. It was nowhere to be found. Of course not—John had had it upstairs last night. Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, skidding to a stop in front of John’s door, and erupted into the room. His eyes went first to the desk. There was no laptop on it, but the virulent green dildo sat proudly front and centre, as though mocking him. Dresser next, but same result (minus the dildo). Floor around the bed, ditto. What had John done with it? Sherlock threw open the wardrobe doors, shoving clothes and sundries aside, but found nothing. He went back to the desk and pulled the drawers open, rifling through the contents, but it wasn’t there, either. Twisting back around, he finally spied a corner of the laptop protruding from beneath the stack of pillows on John’s bed. That was certainly an odd place to put a laptop, but Sherlock dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. He’d puzzle it out later. The important thing was that he had found what he was after.</p><p>He moved to the head of the bed and shoved the top pillow out of the way, revealing another pillow underneath. He paused, eyes narrowing as he frowned down at it. This must be the cervical pillow John had mentioned wanting to buy to help with his neck pain. Odd that it was shaped like a pair of buttocks. He shook his head again, willing himself to focus and stop getting sidetracked. He snarled and bent down to grab the protruding corner of the laptop, shoving the pillow out of the way as he did so. He was wholly unprepared for the 12-inch silicone penis that slapped him on the cheek as the pillow flipped over. What—? He put a hand to his cheek in shock, then took a closer look at the item.</p><p>Oh, of course—another of John’s sex toys. Now that he could see it properly, the “pillow” was actually a sex doll. Well, sex torso, to be precise, since it consisted solely of a pair of buttocks and the aforementioned unrealistic male genitalia. Oh, and anatomically correct orifices, naturally. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the laptop. Time to get to the bottom of this. He groaned at the unintentional pun, hefted the computer, and stomped out of the room. Then he stomped back in, glared at the neon dildo, and snatched it off the desk. Dick had started all this, and dick would help him solve it. He took it with him for inspiration.</p><p>Down in the living room, Sherlock slammed the dildo down onto the side table, threw himself into his chair, and flipped open the laptop. Now, then: to find that video. As soon as the login screen came up, Sherlock briskly tapped in the four digits of John’s PIN.</p><p>THE PIN IS INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.</p><p>Sherlock frowned and typed the digits slower.</p><p>THE PIN IS INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.</p><p>Hmm. So John had changed his PIN, apparently, in a pathetic attempt to keep Sherlock out. He scoffed. Not an issue. John’s PINs were always ridiculously easy to deduce. Sherlock didn’t know why John even bothered.</p><p>Sherlock began with the obvious: birth dates. Month/day, then year for John, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock himself.</p><p>THE PIN IS INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.</p><p>All right, then. Sherlock moved on to the less obvious. He tried initials and partial names for all John’s nearest and dearest, as well as 221B, 0129, and even, thinking back to one of their most memorable cases, 1895 and SHER, and just for shits and giggles, LOCK.</p><p>THE PIN IS INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.</p><p>Sherlock pondered this. There was always the possibility that John had used a random set of four digits, but that would certainly be atypical for him. All his PINs to date had held some kind of meaning for him, however inane.</p><p>Fine, then. Sherlock tried every permutation he could think of for everything of significance to John, up to and including variations on his National Insurance number, Army service number, medical register number, and driver’s licence.</p><p>THE PIN IS INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.</p><p>Sherlock sighed and ranged farther afield. He tried John’s more distant relatives, his friends, and even—scraping the bottom of the barrel a bit—his catalogue of former girlfriends.</p><p>THE PIN IS INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.</p><p>All right, then. Sherlock sighed, gave up, and clicked on the <span class="u">Forgot my PIN</span> link. But all that happened was that the hourglass icon appeared, a set of small dots swirled around it for a few seconds, and then the screen reverted to the PIN field.</p><p>That was odd. Had John suddenly developed stealth coding capabilities? Not likely. It was most probably faulty. Regardless, though, it meant Sherlock had no choice but to figure out the PIN. He snarled and began pounding away at the numeric keypad, starting with the combinations corresponding to all the four-letter profanities.</p><p>At some point Sherlock became dimly aware that the doorbell was ringing. He ignored it until it stopped.</p><p>Nineteen minutes later:</p><p>THE PIN IS INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.</p><p>Sherlock had reached the limits of his tolerance. Why hadn’t he installed a keystroke logger on John’s computer when he’d had the chance? Well, he’d never expected John to be able to stump him with a simple four-digit PIN, for a start. He never thought he’d need it. This was intolerable! He wanted to chuck the laptop across the room, but that would hardly be helpful. A bit counterproductive to destroy the very device he needed information from. He settled for the next best thing instead, wrenching the dildo off the table to his right and hurling it across the room. Just as it reached the midpoint of its flight, the living room door opened and in came his brother.</p><p>Fortunately for Mycroft, some near-forgotten vestige of his MI-5 training kicked in just in time to save him from a dildo-related head injury. He ducked, and the sex toy caromed off the door frame where his head had just been and bounced away down the stairs, fetching up somewhere on the landing. Mycroft squinted down at it, then shook his head in disbelief as he realized what he was looking at. He moved into the room, closing the door behind him.</p><p>“Over the years, brother, I have learned to brace myself for any eventuality when entering your flat.” He waved a hand vaguely to indicate the space around them. “Decomposing body parts, malodorous experiments, even the occasional drug-fuelled assault—”</p><p>“What do you <em>want</em>, Mycroft?” Sherlock growled, not looking up as he returned to pounding away at John’s laptop.</p><p>“—but cranial trauma by sex toy...that is something I never anticipated.” Mycroft advanced into the room and stood leaning on his umbrella, waiting. Sherlock ignored him, fingers still flying over the keypad. With a long-suffering sigh, Mycroft strode over to the client’s chair, moved it into its customary position, and took a seat, straightening his trousers to preserve the crease. He observed what his brother was doing.</p><p>“Good heavens, brother mine. It seems our good doctor has created a puzzle clever enough to confound even the world’s only consulting detective!” His eyes twinkled. “Will wonders never cease?”</p><p>At that, Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to his, gaze raking over him. “Why are you here, Mycroft? Getting a little cardio to work off the six pounds you’ve put on since I saw you last? I’m afraid one flight of stairs won’t cut it, brother dear. And the three—no, four—biscuits Mrs. Hudson fed you with your tea won’t help either.”</p><p>Mycroft gave a mirthless smile and cleared his throat. “It’s four pounds, in fact, and no, cardio is not the reason for my visit. I’m here out of concern.”</p><p>“Concern? I’m fine, Mycroft.”</p><p>“So I see, apart from your obvious frustration with Dr. Watson’s—” Mycroft paused, smirking as he glanced pointedly at the laptop “—apparent coding genius. Just out of curiosity, have you tried S-H-E-R?” he asked sweetly.</p><p>Sherlock skewered him with a glare.</p><p>Mycroft’s smile was smug now. Riling Sherlock up ranked just above cake on the admittedly short list of Mycroft’s joys in life. “No, my concern was for your landlady.”</p><p>At that, Sherlock stopped typing. He stiffened, expression shifting from irritation to concern. “Mrs. Hudson? Is she—”</p><p>Mycroft raised a placating hand. “My apprehension, as it turns out, was misplaced. It had come to my attention that in recent weeks, Mrs. Hudson has taken delivery of a number of...shall we say...anomalous items.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door. “One of which is currently gracing your landing. But now I see she was not the intended recipient. And a few minutes’ conversation over a cup of tea was more than sufficient to establish that she is, indeed, still <em>compos mentis.</em>” Mycroft sniffed. “Or as <em>compos mentis </em>as she ever gets, in any event.”</p><p>“Mm,” Sherlock agreed as he returned to his hacking. “There are a number of factors at play there, not least of which is how many herbal soothers she’s indulged in at any given time.”</p><p>“Quite so,” Mycroft nodded.</p><p>The sound of the doorbell echoed through the building again, followed by the tap of Mrs. Hudson’s heels as the lady herself went to answer. Soon after came the boom of a man’s voice and the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Quick and heavy—the man, then, not Mrs. Hudson.</p><p>Mycroft slapped his hands down on his thighs. “Well, time to be going, I think.” He stood and collected his umbrella. “Now that my concerns have been allayed, I’ll leave you to your business.”</p><p>The living room door opened to reveal Lestrade. Mycroft gave a small smile of appreciation. Even sleep deprived, running on fumes, and keyed up from the conclusion of the Lester case and the earlier press conference, Lestrade was still one of the handsomest men Mycroft had ever set eyes on. Mycroft took a moment to just enjoy the sight of him, then narrowed his eyes as realization dawned. Oh, that was <em>brilliant!</em> Dr. Watson never ceased to surprise.</p><p>Greg entered, nodding to Sherlock and Mycroft in turn. He gestured back toward the stairs and addressed Sherlock. “Are you aware that the Incredible Hulk seems to have lost his dick on your landing?”</p><p>This was met with a dual blank stare from the Holmes brothers.</p><p>“The Incredible <em>what</em>?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>Greg looked from one to the other in disbelief. For all they were brothers, the two men looked almost nothing alike—except at times like this, with their heads tilted back in perplexity, eyes slitted and noses crinkled. Of course neither of them would have any idea what he was talking about. Why would they? Greg sighed. “Right, uh...never mind. Sherlock, you’ve got some of the Lester case files. The Chief Super wants to wrap up the paperwork, put the case to bed.”</p><p>“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Mycroft said, nodding and making his way to the door. Lestrade moved aside to let him by. As he reached the door, Mycroft turned back. “Oh, and Sherlock?” He glanced at Lestrade. “If you want to crack Dr. Watson’s code, you must remember what you always forget.”</p><p>The nose crinkle made a reappearance. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Mycroft?”</p><p>Mycroft met Sherlock’s scowl with a placid smile. “Work it out, brother dear.” He turned to Lestrade. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.” Greg nodded back and Mycroft exited, pulling the door shut behind him.</p><p>Greg turned back to Sherlock, fixing him with an expectant look as he waited for him to stop sitting there blinking and gazing after his brother. It took a moment or two for Sherlock to shake himself out of it and shift his attention back to the subject at hand. “Case files. Right. Let me just...” He indicated the desk and moved over to it, rifling through several stacks of papers until he found the folder he was searching for. “Ah, here we are.” He handed it over and Greg took it from him.</p><p>“Thanks, Sherlock. Can’t stay, got to get this back to the Yard. Thanks again for your help on this one!” he said, lifting the file in salute. He opened the stairwell door and stepped through, pulling it shut in his wake, but popped his head back in when Sherlock’s voice stopped him.</p><p>“By the way,” Sherlock remarked casually as he resumed his seat, “don’t be surprised if you find my brother lingering outside. He’ll use any excuse to loiter if it means the chance to talk to you.” He looked up at Greg with a smirk. “He thinks I’ve no idea just how <em>dishy </em>he finds you.”</p><p>Lestrade looked completely flummoxed for a moment but then broke out in a disbelieving grin. “Oh, you are having me on. Posh bloke like your brother, fancying a copper? Right, pull the other one!” He chuckled.</p><p>Sherlock fixed him with a level gaze, dead serious. “I assure you I’m not. It’s revolting,” he answered, flipping the laptop open. “His infatuation is visible from space.”</p><p>“Bit like yours for John, then,” Greg shot back.</p><p>Sherlock’s gaze snapped back up to his, unsmiling.</p><p>“I’ve told you before, Sherlock, I may not be some boffin like you or your brother, but I’m not an idiot, either. I see how you feel about John, and I see how he feels about you, and it’s the same.”</p><p>“It isn’t,” Sherlock said, all hint of levity gone. “John’s <em>not gay</em>,” he said bitterly.</p><p>“No,” said Greg. “He isn’t. At the very least, he’s bi. We do exist, you know.”</p><p>At that revelation, Sherlock simply stared. His mouth hung open but no words emerged. Greg made a mental note of the date and time on which he had reduced the great Sherlock Holmes to speechlessness. <em>Boffin wrangling achievement unlocked</em>, he thought. “Didn’t deduce that one, then?” he needled.</p><p>Sherlock blinked rapidly as he processed this new data, then shook himself out of it. “My brother will be delighted,” he concluded.</p><p>Greg rolled his eyes. “Yeah, still not falling for that one. Better luck next time.” He saluted him with the file. “Got to get back.” He let himself out, still shaking his head in disbelief at the idea of Mycroft Holmes fancying someone like him, someone so decidedly beneath him in every way. Intellectually, socially, economically—they were in different leagues altogether. The very suggestion was laughable. And yet—</p><p>Greg paused on the bottom step, thinking back. Remembering more than a decade of quiet dinners shared in elegant restaurants all across London, ostensibly to discuss Sherlock but ranging much farther afield. Recalling long evenings spent in quiet conversation at the Diogenes Club, putting the world to rights over tumblers of exquisite (and exquisitely expensive) scotch. Thinking of years of generous and elegant gifts so perfectly suited to him that they were clearly the result of considerable thought and contemplation on Mycroft’s part and not a duty fobbed off on Anthea or some underling. Greg had attributed all of that to Mycroft’s gratitude for his help in wrangling his wayward younger sibling, but maybe there was more to it? Greg couldn’t deny his own attraction to Mycroft, but for most of the years of their acquaintance, Greg had been married, and Mycroft had been...Mycroft. Out of Greg’s league. Quite apart from which, Greg would never be unfaithful, not even after learning that his wife had. So what was Sherlock on about? It certainly wasn’t like him to suggest an attraction where there wasn’t one, unless he had something to gain by doing so, and Greg couldn’t imagine that was the case here. So maybe—? Greg shook his head. Nope. Still ridiculous. All at once the full weight of his fatigue hit him behind the knees and he very nearly sat down where he stood. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that if he sat down now, he would probably never get up again. He’d have to live the rest of his life right here on Mrs. Hudson’s bottom step. Could a man live on a steady diet of nothing but baked goods and tea? He was tempted to find out.</p><p>Just then the lady herself emerged from her flat, carrying a plate. “Oh, Detective Inspector! I was just going to take Sherlock up some biscuits. Would you care for some? Or maybe a cuppa?”</p><p>Greg roused himself from his stupor, smiling gratefully. “I’d love some, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ve got to get back. We wrapped up a big case and we’re putting it all to bed.”</p><p>“Oh, I know. I watched the press conference earlier. Terrible, what they were going to do to those kids. They should be locked up forever.”</p><p>“If my team has anything to say about it, they will be,” Greg answered. “Another time for the cuppa and biscuits, yeah?” He moved aside to let the landlady by and made his way to the door.</p><p>“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Come by anytime you like!”</p><p>“Thanks, Mrs. H.” He nodded and opened the front door, then stopped short at the sight of Mycroft Holmes stood just outside, talking on his mobile. Was it possible that Sherlock had been...not only serious, but <em>right?</em> No, surely not. Yet here was the man himself, just as Sherlock had predicted. Greg shook his head and stepped out, reaching back to pull the door shut behind him. A sudden screech and the crash of a dropping plate stopped him in his tracks. Mycroft spun around in alarm.</p><p>“Sherlock <em>BLOODY</em> Holmes!” came Mrs. Hudson’ shriek. “<em>WHY IS THERE A PENIS ON MY LANDING</em>?!”</p><p>That was too much for Greg, who just managed to get the door shut before losing his composure. He tried his best to keep quiet, mindful of Mycroft’s telephone conversation, but his mirth would not be contained. He got himself down the lone step to the pavement and stopped there, howling with laughter. Mycroft’s lips twitched as he watched Greg’s paroxysm play out, and he ended his call with a word of apology to the caller. At length Greg sobered, sagging weakly against the iron railing, the file folder trailing from one nerveless hand. “Sorry,” he managed finally, wiping at his eyes. “Sorry about that. It’s just...oh...that is just about the last thing I could ever have imagined Mrs. Hudson saying. Probably wasn’t actually that funny, now I think of it, but...I may just be a tad overtired.”</p><p>“Perhaps a bit,” Mycroft acknowledged, smiling. “Though it was entertaining.”</p><p>Greg drew breath to apologize again, but Mycroft moved to stand in front of him. “Don’t apologize, Detective Inspector,” he said, wordlessly offering his pocket square. “That was...quite delightful, actually.”</p><p>Greg took the offered square with a nod of gratitude, using it to dry his eyes, and tried to hand it back. Mycroft declined with a gentle touch to his hand, and Greg looked up then. Brown eyes met grey and both men stilled, acutely conscious of the point of touch they shared. After a moment, Greg turned his wrist, tentatively clasping his fingers around the other man’s palm. “Thank you,” he murmured, smiling softly.</p><p>Mycroft returned it, hesitant, staring back at him in wonder. “Detective Inspector—”</p><p>“Greg. After all these years, I think we can swing first names, don’t you?” Greg asked gently.</p><p>“Of course,” Mycroft nodded. “Greg, then.” Their hands were still clasped; neither man appeared to be in a rush to change that, and there was no telling how long they might have stayed so, just drinking each other in and holding hands, if the skies hadn’t chosen that moment to open up. Mycroft gave a start as a fat raindrop struck the top of his head. He wiped it away, then opened his umbrella to shield them both from the cloudburst. He cleared his throat. “May I...offer you a ride back to the Yard? I don’t see your car here.”</p><p>Greg shrugged. “Yeah, I had Sally drop me. I was going to get a cab back.” He smiled. “A lift would be great.” <em>And it would be an excuse to spend a bit more time together</em>, he thought but didn’t say.</p><p>“Then, please, allow me to be of service,” Mycroft said as a black car drew up at the kerb behind him. They moved to the vehicle in unison and Mycroft opened the door, then held the umbrella to shield Greg as he climbed in.</p><p>Upstairs, Sherlock watched the two men get in and the car glide away into the pelting rain. The flat was finally quiet again after the bollocking Mrs. Hudson had given him about the damned dildo. She had insisted he fetch it off the landing <em>right this minute, young man!, </em>which he had done, restoring it to its place of honour on the table beside his chair. After further haranguing, he then swept up and disposed of the broken dish and ruined biscuits. At last that was enough to placate Mrs. Hudson, who retreated back downstairs muttering dark threats of raising his rent as compensation for everything he put her through.</p><p>Now Sherlock stood staring down at the empty pavement, lost in thought. His brother and Lestrade would doubtless be quite nauseating from now on. There would be public displays of affection, little <em>inside jokes</em>, unprotected eye sex. <em>Ugh.</em> Revolting! And if by some miracle Lestrade was able to not just tolerate but even become enamoured of his insufferable brother, who knew how far it might go? There might be a happy announcement by the end of the week. Sherlock could end up with a brother-in-law named...Gavin? George? Geronimo? No, none of those were right. What was his name, again? John was always after him to remember it. Greg! Greg, that was it.</p><p>Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes as realization struck. Of course! "Remember what you always forget." He whirled back toward his chair, snatched up the laptop, and typed in 4-7-3-4. G-R-E-G. The computer opened itself to him like a morning glory to the dawn.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock froze in disbelief for a moment as the display switched from login to desktop. He had been staring at that damned login screen for so long that it took him a moment to process that it had actually changed. Right. <em>Stay on target!</em> The video.</p><p>Sherlock clicked on the browser icon and discovered that no further sleuthing was required: John had helpfully left the tab open and the video cued up. Sherlock slid the playhead back to the start, took a breath, and clicked play.</p><p>The first few seconds were devoted to credits. Apparently this video, whatever it was, was no amateur production. The two actors were apparently named Kent and Chandler. The title card popped up: Drenching Kent in Cum. <em>Okaaayyy...</em></p><p>The scene switched to two clothed men, kissing on a bed. Both were young, one blond and smaller, the other taller and dark-haired. The darker man’s face was turned away as he lavished kisses on the smaller man’s neck. The camera angle changed as the men kissed and caressed each other on the bed, and Sherlock gulped as he caught sight of the dark-haired man’s face for the first time. These two could be himself and John, if they had met in uni. Sherlock hit pause to give himself time to digest the implications. Clearly this was not just any random gay porn video. This was two men who were doppelgängers for himself and John, albeit ten to 15 years younger. This was two men whose sexual escapades had brought John to an explosive climax under Sherlock’s very eyes. Sherlock gulped and clicked play again.</p><p>The dark-haired man was better hung than Sherlock himself (no surprise there—this was a porno, after all), but Sherlock was oddly pleased to see that the blond was not as well endowed as John.</p><p>Sherlock watched the entire, twenty-minute video through. Watched as these doubles of himself and John kissed and fondled and traded oral sex. Watched as the blond man lowered himself down onto his partner’s stiff cock, going slowly, easing into it, before the other man began moving, slowly at first and then thrusting up into him. Watched as they worked their way through several creative and frankly contortionate positions, until finally the John double—Kent, apparently—ended up on his back, with the Sherlock double—Chandler—kneeling between his legs as he fucked him. Kent was flushed scarlet now, sweat glistening on his face and forehead as he reached down and began pulling himself off, the flush of arousal spreading over his chest. Kent was cursing now, chasing his climax, and Chandler urged him on, fucking him through it until Kent shot off all over his own chest. The sight pushed Chandler closer to his own orgasm, and within a few seconds he was frantic, arousal peaking as he pounded into Kent, who continued to stroke himself off despite just having come. He didn’t want the pleasure to end. Chandler was close now, cursing and panting, and it was Kent’s turn to urge him on as Chandler pulled out and took himself in hand, stroking hard and fast, until he shouted and came hard all over Kent as he lay sprawled out beneath him. Both men were crying out and cursing as Chandler’s come pulsed out of him, and with a jolt, Sherlock recognized the moment he had overheard the previous night. This, then, was what had brought John to orgasm—the sight of a Sherlock lookalike ejaculating all over a John lookalike. And no wonder—Sherlock himself was so hard it felt like his cock was trying to punch a hole through his trousers.</p><p>Sherlock hit pause again and sucked in a ragged breath. He knew it wasn’t physically possible for him to have held his breath through the entire length of the video, but the way his chest was burning certainly made it feel that way. He forced himself to try to breathe normally, but the room was spinning and tilting around him. He clutched the arms of his chair to steady himself.</p><p>This was...</p><p>Unexpected?</p><p>Momentous?</p><p>Earth-shaking?</p><p>All of those things, yet none seemed to fully encompass the tectonic shift that Sherlock’s perception of the universe was undergoing, the cataclysmic reassessment of his every assumption about John Watson and John Watson’s sexuality.</p><p>Was it really possible that John was bi, as Greg had claimed? That John could actually want to be with a man...with <em>Sherlock</em>...that way? Hope scrabbled like a wild thing in Sherlock’s chest, and he quashed it ruthlessly. No, before he could believe, he needed evidence. Data. Facts. He thought about John’s shenanigans over these past few months, and how they had been steadily escalating. John had clearly been trying to rattle him—an endeavour that had proved a resounding success, Sherlock was forced to admit—but now something was nagging at him, something about the toys themselves.</p><p>Sherlock closed his eyes and consciously calmed his breathing. He needed to focus.</p><p>The toy business had started with the Fleshlight, followed by the Day-Glo dildo, then the sex torso upstairs on John’s bed. Each bigger and more ludicrous than the last, but yet... No, he was missing something.</p><p>Feeling steadier now, Sherlock opened his eyes. He considered for a moment, then launched a new browser tab and navigated to the Fleshlight website. There were two options of orifice on John’s particular model of Fleshlight (the Fleshlight Original, as it turned out): the Lady (a vulva), and the Butt (a puckered anus). John had opted for the latter. Why would he do that, if he was straight? Surely the delicate petals of the vulva would have appealed to him much more than the decidedly more masculine anus? One point in favour of John’s bisexuality, then, albeit a tenuous one. Women had anuses too, after all.</p><p>Sherlock considered the next of John’s toys: the infamous dildo. What would John need with a dildo if he were straight? They were designed for insertion, after all. Of course, plenty of straight men enjoyed prostate stimulation, certainly, but surely there were other toys far better designed for the purpose, if that was what John was after. Possible second point in favour of bisexuality, but again, tenuous. More data needed.</p><p>And, lastly, Sherlock came to the sex torso. This was perhaps the most probative piece of evidence of all. Here again, John could have chosen a female version if being the penetrating party was what he was after. Some models even came complete with jiggling silicone breasts. But instead of that, John had opted for the male version, with its mandatory anus and outsized genitalia. And try as he might, Sherlock could find not a single heterosexual explanation for that.</p><p>No, it was clear that the balance of probability was tipping in favour of bisexuality. Oh, God!</p><p>The hope reared its head again, and again Sherlock clamped down on it. <em>No. Not yet.</em> He took another (very calm, very measured) breath and opened John’s browser history. John, it seemed, had been watching quite a lot of gay porn in recent months, but none so often as the video Sherlock had just watched, whose page John had visited no fewer than 47 times in the past ten weeks. Last night had clearly not been the first time John had got off to this particular piece of pornography. And that, more than anything else, was the clearest evidence yet not only of John’s bisexuality in general, but of his attraction to Sherlock in particular.</p><p>Was it possible that everything...everything Sherlock had ever wanted—dreamed—could actually <em>be? </em>That John could be his after all? Sherlock’s heart began thudding like a battering ram against his sternum, and before he knew it, the room was spinning around him again. He couldn’t seem to get enough air, and his hands and feet felt wrong—prickly and numb all at once. Dimly, Sherlock realized that he was hyperventilating, possibly even panicking. If John were here, he would know what to do, would know how to help him, how to make it better.</p><p>But John wasn’t here, was he?</p><p>Except he was, sort of. Mind-palace John was always with him, and always a comfort, despite being only a reasonable facsimile of the real thing. Sherlock closed his eyes, expecting to find the steadiness of his mind palace, but instead there were cracks snaking along the building’s walls and windowpanes as its foundation rumbled and shook. Clearly the mind palace was mirroring the seismic shift in Sherlock’s understanding of the world. Sherlock staggered to the door of John’s wing and pulled it open. Beyond was a howling maelstrom. “Sherlock?” came John’s voice from inside. “What’s happening?” he shouted.</p><p>And there was John himself, gripping a door frame for balance, eyes slitted against the wind lashing at his hair and cardigan.</p><p>Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of him, wordlessly reaching out a hand. John clasped it without hesitation and emerged from the replica of 221B's lounge to join him in the corridor. Instantly, Sherlock felt steadier. The ground stilled beneath them and the wind dropped, then subsided altogether. John had always been Sherlock’s one fixed point, his north star, the one who kept him right. And though the world remained off kilter, as long as John was here, Sherlock knew everything would be okay.</p><p>John let go of Sherlock's hand and ran his fingers through his own hair to smooth it down, eyeing the damage to their surroundings. “What was all that about, then?” he asked, turning back.</p><p>“You,” said Sherlock.</p><p>John smiled in disbelief. “Me?” he turned and gestured at the wreckage around them, “I managed all this?”</p><p>“You...rocked my world. Literally, it seems. John, I...”</p><p>“What do you need, Sherlock?”</p><p>“I need to go back over...us...every moment we’ve spent together, every interaction.” He turned and entered the replica 221B, John trailing him. Sherlock gestured at the overturned armchairs, the listing bookshelves, the piles of papers and rubble. “I need to put all of this back in order.”</p><p>John’s eyebrows shot up. “Everything and every moment?” He smiled. “That...could take a while.”</p><p>Sherlock smiled back despite himself. “Ages. But it’s necessary, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Ah,” John said. “Then I guess—” he bent down to retrieve an item from beneath a pile of detritus “—we should begin at the beginning.” He hefted the object, a child’s wooden pirate chest with a skull and two crossed swords inlaid in gold on the lid. Beneath that was an inscription: 29 January 2010.</p><p>Sherlock took the chest from John, giving a fond smile as he brushed the lid clear of dust. “Yes. The beginning.”</p><p>Over the next couple of hours, he and John put the wing to rights, and in the process Sherlock reviewed his every recollection of himself and John together as acquaintances, then flatmates, then friends, looking for any clue, any indication that John was anything but straight, that they could maybe, possibly become something more. Their every moment together was scrutinised through this new lens.</p><p>Two hours later, John slid the last file box into place on a bottom shelf. “There,” he said, straightening up and surveying the results of their efforts with satisfaction. “That should do it. Did you find what you needed?”</p><p>Sherlock surveyed the room, as well, and breathed a sigh of relief. He looked back at John, whose silver and gold hair gleamed in the firelight from the hearth. Sherlock smiled softly. “Yes, I found it. Thank you, John.”</p><p>John grinned. “You know I’m not really him, right? I’m just a figment of your imagination?”</p><p>“Of course I do, John. We’re inside my head, after all.”</p><p>“So all of this...this...disarray...was about you and me...I mean, him?”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he smiled down at the man he loved. “Isn’t everything?”</p><p>John approached him, reaching out tentatively and taking Sherlock’s hand in his. “I think, maybe...” he took a breath, started again. “I think maybe you have something to say to me—him—the other me...don’t you?”</p><p>Sherlock straightened and nodded, lips pressed together in determination. “Yes, I believe I have.”</p><p>John’s hand squeezed his. “Go on, then,” he said, smiling softly. “Go tell him. I think he needs to hear it.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded again, steeling himself. “Yes," he agreed. "And I need to say it,” He squared his shoulders, drew in a calming breath, and left his mind palace. He opened his eyes—</p><p>—and nearly levitated out of his seat at the sight of John Watson sat opposite him in his armchair, placidly sipping a cup of tea.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you're interested in watching the video that has our boys all hot and bothered, go here:<br/>https://m.spankbang.com/1avim/video/kent+drenched+in+cum<br/>THIS IS PORN. EXTREMELY NSFW. YOU WILL SEE SO MUCH DICK.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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